


Three Tully Daughters

by ProcrastinationIsMyCrime



Series: Sansa's Second Life: The Reign of Aerys II Targaryen [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Books, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Jaime-centric, Jaimsa, Rare Pairings, Sansa-centric, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smart Sansa, Time Travel, direwolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-26 08:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 47
Words: 257,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinationIsMyCrime/pseuds/ProcrastinationIsMyCrime
Summary: UNDER REVISION  5/47Chapter 5 complete.Conflicts for the Iron Throne before the darkest hour led to the defeat of the living on Westeros. Few managed to flee and Sansa became a Braavosi dressmaker for seven years. Arya serving the House of Black and White.By work of the gods or something else, Sansa encounters a memorable bachelor in Braavos who looks younger and should be dead. But that wasn't her only surprise; she is in the reign of Aerys II Targaryen.She makes plans but things change, she discovers; unexpected allies, unexpected support, an unexpected reunion.Knowledge is power; but as time passes, and events change, her knowledge of what will be dwindles.It won't be easy.





	1. The Red Viper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngelQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/gifts), [StarlightAsteria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised

_Day 24, 8 th moon, 312 AC_

Working diligently beside fellow dressmakers in what was now her home, Sansa finished the finer embroidery she was known for and hung the dress to keep it in good condition until tomorrow. The Westerosi rubbed her callused fingers together, the hardness from years of needlepoint and frowned when she turned her head to the sewing room window. Instead the snows of the North she longed for, there were only busy streets and harbour of Braavos. Somewhere in this city, Arya was earning coin with her own skills while Sansa created gowns commissioned by Braavosi families.

It was just Sansa and Arya now; the last Starks of Winterfell.

Winterfell. Riverrun. The Eyrie. Casterly Rock. Highgarden. Storm’s End. Dragonstone. Sunspear. It didn’t matter what part of Westeros came to the mind of a Westerosi in Braavos or Pentos; they would never see it in its splendour again.

Every Westerosi ship was said to be only ashes by Daenerys with Drogon and Rhaegal. The Targaryen woman had flown to Mereen once Viserion fell to a Valyrian steel sword. Thus restricting the Others to the continent of Westeros; undead creatures unable to swim.

Sansa hadn’t seen an Other since sailing at Jon’s behest with a resistant Arya seven years ago. When Arya begged Jon to let her fight her emotional mask fell away she was that desperate, to no avail. Her sister had become more closed off since. Painful as it was to Sansa for Arya to fade into a husk of who she used to be, Sansa would never turn her back on her sister. She hoped Arya was alright. Arya was absent for too long recently.

A clamour of Low Valyrian cheers outside caught Sansa’s attention and drew her outside to the docks to sate stirring curiosity. Leaving one of the ships was a number of men with one or two obsidian tipped arrows remaining in their quivers. Concluding what the fuss was about, Sansa ignored the archers and made her way back inside and picked up her work instructions; embroidery of a lavish wedding dress.

Similar cheers repeated themselves for years, but it always tore at her heart each time. Westeros was her homeland, but now a hunting ground for daring men when they came of age.

Sansa wiped away a stray tear and pushed herself to focus on the dress, letting the soft sounds of her fellow dressmakers keep her to task.

“Sansa?” her closest friend said next to her. “You’re the most skilled at needlepoint in this house. Mistress Talea isn’t about to dismiss you for being distracted for a few days,” Sansa was reassured in Low Valyrian; the language of the Free Cities. It varied from city to city and interpretation was harder the further away another city was.

A tear slid down Sansa’s cheek once she placed the silk aside with care. “There’s been no trace of her; Arya,” Sansa explained in kind and received a knowing nod from the fellow dressmaker. “I trust she can take care of herself. She told me never to seek her out, but I fear the worst. She’s never failed to return by day’s end before. Her haunts unvisited. It’s been four days.”

With all she’d lost, it was difficult to be optimistic; especially in Braavos, which Arya had told her to never leave their shared chambers Mistress Talea rented to them without carrying a blade.

Enduring the wait for Arya was worse than Cersei’s cruel words, Joffrey’s Kingsguard, or Ramsay’s flaying knife. This was her sister, and she hoped Arya was alright. Sansa needed word she was safe. Something.

There was a knock on the door and Sansa hurried over to it, praying it was Arya. It revealed a stranger holding a note and Needle with traces of fresh blood. “Valar Morghulis,” he greeted with a bow. “A message for Sansa Stark,” said the man in Low Valyrian.

It had taken time to learn the language of the Free Cities, but it was a necessity since Westeros was as good as gone. “Valar Dohaeris,” she responded, accepting both from his hands. “I am Sansa.”

_Sansa,_

_Valar morghulis,_

_Arya_

_-Look after Needle._

 

"No..." She shook her head in denial. "No..."

The message was clear but Sansa didn’t want to believe it and turned back to the man. “Who sent this? What did they look like?”

Her emotions must have shone through her eyes, for the stranger looked at her with pity; Arya always said her eyes gave too much away. “High as your shoulders, brown hair cut short, tunic and breeches. She asked I delivered these if her wound festered. I’m sorry.”

_No_ …

Sansa dropped all pretence of calm, held Needle close and sobbed; oblivious to all around her and something unyielding sliced her side. The wet could only be blood after that pain, but she didn't care.

Arya was gone.

The last Stark slipped into darkness.

 

A pounding headache; the first thing that registered in Sansa’s mind. Her closed eyes were heavy as though she hadn’t slept for days.

Beneath her body was the familiar hardness of her bed, while cool strokes of damp linen ran across her forehead. Attempting to stir in the quiet chamber, Sansa almost flinched when what was likely linen touched her closed eyes. She took a breath and opened them; beside her bed sitting on a stool was a stranger. A young woman roughly sixteen or seventeen.

“What happened?” Sansa said. Around her was a familiar bedchamber with a few differences, one of them was Needle. It all bubbled to the surface. “Arya…”

The woman grown, just out of girlhood, seated beside the bed seemed confused. “Did you dream of home?”

“No,” Sansa denied with a weak shake. “Family. I dreamt of family.”

Another woman entered her bedchamber, but this person was several years older than the first. “Meralyn, I heard voices. Has she awoken?”

Meralyn quickly became demure. “Yes, Mistress Talea.”

Sansa did a double-take of the second woman, for she looked nothing near the age of the business owner Sansa worked for. But a careful stare took in the woman’s appearance and her eyes and face had the same features yet younger. This made no sense and Meralyn on the stool was a new face.

 “Good,” Mistress Talea said, dismissing Meralyn with a wave. “Sansa, you won’t be assisting with sales for two sennights. Instead, I want full dedication to creating and completing a wedding order I received this morning,” she instructed. Another woman Meralyn’s age approached and Mistress Tela turned to her. “Tell the girls to gather everything for the square. I want our pavilion readied in a half-hour.”

“Yes, Mistress Talea,” was the meek reply.

“And Sansa,” Mistress Talea spoke, glancing her way. “Put that sword away. You won’t be leaving the house any time soon.” 

Following the lead of Meralyn and the other assumed dressmaker, Sansa replied in the same manner. Mistress Talea left without looking back and closed the door; mannerisms that rang like a castle bell for Sansa.

Rising to her feet and she put a two piece gown over her shift, but there was a significant difference in her body; small and scar-free. Little more than a child and eleven at most. Grasping the wall so not to knock over the looking glass, Sansa stiffly opened the door of her wardrobe and all the gowns were meant for a child.

Instead of reaching for them, Sansa sought for Arya’s clothes in the wardrobe they shared but there was nothing.

Stifling a sob to avoid drawing attention she endured as Arya’s absence clawed at her heart. Despite her lacking appetite, Sansa approached the delivered meal and ate the food out of obligation more than anything. When her eyes fell on Needle, Sansa pulled the skinny sword into her lap and traced its hilt. Arya had spent much time training to master wielding this sword to the point it was an extension of herself.

The writing of Arya's note stayed with Sansa; Look after Needle. And so she will, but to try becoming Arya would be a great disservice to her sister. They were their own person.

Sansa took the sheathed skinny sword over to the wardrobe and rested it on the shelf, but the door remained opened. From where she stood, Sansa wept for her sister in silence; eyes closed and flashes of Arya sparring with admirable prowess against Jon in Winterfell. Those two had enjoyed it as much as Sansa worried about the future; such fluidity hadn’t been enough for either of them in the end.

Opening her eyes, Sansa glanced over at the looking glass and wet streaks were on her cheeks.  

With light steps she went to the water basin and wiped her face until the only trace of her grief was the redness of her eyes. Taking a breath and turning to the door to find it closed, the woman grown in a girl’s body tidied her chamber to the typical liking of Mistress Talea and made her way into the sewing room. With the exception of fabric bolts, threads and sewing kits, it was vacant.

If matters were the same now it would mean she needed to earn her coin by making gowns. Sansa had the weakness of a child now and the absence of the dragonglass knives for protection. Arya had taught her how to handle them, but they were gone. She couldn’t afford to be dismissed from here.

Under her name in the order book were details for the wedding dress; fabric, embroidery and measurements. She gathered the silk and the remaining Stark fell into the task’s process as though it was little more than walking. Habit and memory took over. Marking, cutting fabric, sewing seams; step by step until the daylight was too weak.

Retired to the kitchen and finishing a brief meal, Sansa returned to her bedchamber with a goblet of diluted Essence of Nightshade. The need for dreamless sleep was dire in this situation. Drinking it, she was soon abed and her mind sinking into oblivion.

The next day the routine repeated itself. Working and eating, working and eating. Time was lost to her as she threw herself into the only thing that mattered; the wedding dress. She couldn’t afford to fail. Days became sennights, and soon enough Sansa was present with the other girls under the pavilion in a market square.

At Mistress Talea’s pavilion, a fine-dressed and ruby jewelled woman called ‘Lady Daena’ permitted Sansa to take her measurements. When Lady Daena insisted Sansa served her, wariness stirred but Sansa acted as though all was fine. She kept a careful watch all the same.

Behind a screen and writing down the lady’s measurements, Sansa’s silence was broken by the customer. “Dear girl,” Lady Daena said. Sansa looked up from the notes to meet the woman’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re making gowns for me again. Truth is,” Lady Daena dropped into a whisper. “The other girls make gowns. But, you dear, make gowns of beauty.”

Curtesy is a lady’s armour. “That’s a kind thing for you to say, my lady,” Sansa said with ease. Everything had occurred like a normal market day, except Sansa’s smaller size.

Lady Daena placed a gentle finger under Sansa’s chin. “I say what I mean, dear,” she said, smiling. “I’d make my orders with another business otherwise. Your embroidery and styling is the envy of every dressmaker, I should think.”

Flattered and a little proud, warmth gather with Sansa and Lady Daena thumbed a shoulder. “I’m honoured, my lady,” she said to the lady with a brief curtsy. “This will be complete in a sennight.”

“Any art cannot be rushed. Do make sure you rest, sweetling.”

The woman left and a Dornishman in his twenties, or close to it, came into view. He was looking at the displayed gowns with critique until his eyes rested on one appropriate for warmer weather; those black eyes becoming a glimmer of determination. Curious but maintaining her role as a dressmaker, she approached the order book to add Lady Daena’s.

He stepped into the shade of the pavilion towards Mistress Talea. From the corner of her eye, Sansa watched the man to take in his appearance. A weak urge to curtsy before him stirred within her, nagging her. His features were somewhat familiar, but younger; much younger.

Everyone seemed younger for some reason.

Her instincts were persistent about this man. In one hand was a partisan decorated with a gold snake on each side; a feature to be acknowledged and considered. The details were screaming at her who it was, but there was no guarantee.

Olive skin akin to salty Dornishmen, deep black hair, body tall and slender, strides were graceful and confident.

Watching the exchange between them, she seated herself near the display and eavesdropped with her back to them.

By reputation, this Dornishman was one of impulse and chivalry. If she made herself a curiosity to him, she had a chance of leaving here if her assumption was true.

“You must be proud of your girls, my lady,” he complemented before dropping into a tone Sansa couldn’t hear; Mistress Talea following his lead. Their postures were calm at first, but an air of tension built the more Mistress Talea became agitated. 

“She is my finest dressmaker! Purchase a dress or leave!” Mistress Talea’s snapped, attracting the attention of people passing through the square.

Now with a valid reason, Sansa turned around and looked past the man’s back to the frustration on Mistress Talea’s face.

“She is a free person, is she not?” the Dornishman countered. “Should she wish it, the girl could come to Dorne and make dresses for my sister, Elia. The craftsmanship is impeccable.”

Struck with shock from the confirmation, Sansa’s gaze whipped to the top of the order book.

_Day 10, 9 th moon, 275 AC._

One fact dominated her mind. Westeros wasn’t a cold wasteland anymore.

Mistress Talea was muttering darkly to him while Sansa assembled a new identity for herself.

One way or another, she was going home to Westeros and needed to find a way to fit into the era of her mother’s girlhood. Her reflection in a window provided a quick answer to who she would pose as. The date meant she was younger than her mother by a year, which worked as Aunt Lysa was two years after Mother. Walking up to the pair, she curtsied before the second prince of Dorne. “My Prince, it prides me to hear such words. I am Sansa of House Tully.”

Prince Oberyn blinked at her once and his eyes developed a shine. “Tully of Westeros? Daughter of Hoster Tully, no?”

Behind him, Mistress Talea looked like she’d lost their argument.

With proof her new identity was convincing, Sansa continued with it. “Yes, Prince Oberyn, he is my father. Minisa Tully; my mother.”

The Dornish people had a reputation for impatience, but his was one of impulsiveness that'd gotten him exiled for a time.

He stared at her, thumb on his chin while she stared back. “I admit this makes me a curious man. What is a Tully girl of, I dare say, ten doing in Braavos? One would think you should be home. Family, D-“

“-Duty, Honour,” she finished with a nod.

The man's expressions were thoughtful and curious; he sat down and looked at her with intensity; gaze piercing as though they knew all her secrets. “You know your words,” he said. “But you neglect them. You’re not with your family,” he continued and raised his index. “The first word.”

She couldn't afford to be too bold now and relaxed her frame. “Braavos is the only home I’ve known, My Prince, but not the one I belong to,” Sansa defended with demure. “I’ve been here for many years.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes never leaving her. “Your voice speaks of grief,” he commented, a quick glance at Mistress Talea before returning to Sansa. “Is Westeros what you desire?”

“More than anything, Prince Oberyn. I’ve no memory of Riverrun, but long for it all the same. My father most likely believes I was stillborn," she told him solemnly. "I don’t think I would be well received at Riverrun, but I want to go home.” Sansa would play on his earlier desire if it would get her back to Westeros. “I admit I’m curious about Sunspear, My Prince. Would I be welcome there? I fear I won't be at Riverrun,” Sansa said, baiting him.

Prince Oberyn tilted his head some and a triumphant smile emerged. “Aye, I do believe you would be, Lady Tully. You wouldn't be speaking to me like this if you didn't desire leaving. Are you in agreement to come to Dorne?” he asked.

“I am, My Prince,” she confirmed with no hesitation.

“Then it is settled.” Prince Oberyn turned to Mistress Talea, who'd controlled Sansa’s life for years, whether she knew it or not. “This child will be sailing to Westeros with me on the morrow. I shall take her to Sunspear where she will find a true home.”


	2. Casterly Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 25, 9 th moon, 275 AC_

 

Within his father’s solar, nine-year-old Jaime, heir to Casterly Rock and future Warden of the West, was going through the sentences his father had set him to read properly without fault. Father was away at King’s Landing more than he was present at Casterly Rock, but when he was here Jaime was to read every day.

These days, Jaime still came to his father’s solar to prove he could read, but now documents about the Westerland affairs. It only took him a few minutes and earned a nod from Father.

“Jaime," Father said and Jaime put the parchment down. Father's gold-specked emerald eyes were fixed upon him. "The maester informed me your lessons will be history. To rule the Westerlands, you must know the Westerlands,” Father said. “When you’re older you will sit in this solar to discuss the West." Picking up a quill, Father tilted his head to the door. "Ser Dareon will be in the training yard. Go.”

Jaime wasted no time getting out of the seat. “Yes, Father,” he said, giving a nod.

Casterly Rock was huge, but Jaime could make his way to the yard with his eyes closed if he wanted to. Free from Father’s scrutiny, he passed through the halls and into the yard. His master-at-arms wasn't there yet, but he would be. Very soon he would be.

Not wanting to tarry for a moment, Jaime donned the armour like it was second nature from all of the practise.

Swordsmanship had to be the one thing, of few things, he was good at. Something about it just came to him as though it was breathing. However, Father never seemed pleased about it. Cersei’s ease of reading made Jaime look like a disappointment in Father’s serious eyes during the reading lessons.

Shaking his head and he lifted the sparring sword from the rack, the heir of Casterly Rock turned at the sound of leather on rock. Two years’ time and Jaime would be old enough to squire for a knight. He couldn’t wait for his eleventh nameday.

Ser Dareon grinned and picked up a sword and shield. “Let’s begin, Jaime.”      

Every frustration melted away from Jaime; swords and shields meeting one another. Every breath was new life entering his body. Here and now, he was just Jaime, not the Heir to Casterly Rock, not future Warden of the West. Him. Just him and his blade. Training to become a knight.

A man who protects the innocent and the weak. A man that rides into battle to defend the good of the world. A man bestowed glory and honour for noble deeds; the good of true knights.

A smile pulled at his lips and Jaime did nothing to hide it. This was him. What he wanted to be.

“Shield up! Or I’ll ring your head like a bell,” Ser Dareon said, delivering a swing towards Jaime’s head.  

He blocked the blade and fought on. Parry, blocks, delivering blows and dodging them. Confidence flowed within him until Ser Dareon used a technique Jaime hadn’t been taught to counter before. Spinning out of the way, he signaled for a short rest and drink. They returned to training and Jaime, with determination, pondered how to maneuver against Ser Dareon’s trick. There was an opening and Jaime took it, doing what seemed right.

Ser Dareon dropped his sword to the side. “I yield!”

Taking a step back to catch his breath, he approached the master-at-arms who handed Jaime a waterskin and smiling proud. Sometimes Ser Dareon seemed more like a father to Jaime than Father did. He couldn’t help the niggling guilt, but it rang true to Jaime.

Ser Dareon, his large sword on the ground, clasped Jaime’s shoulder and gave him a nod. “Well done, Jaime. I’ll have to fight harder because my pride is in danger. You’re becoming quite proficient. New techniques on the morrow; you’re ready for them,” he said.

“Ser Dareon,” Jaime said. “Be ready to protect your pride tomorrow,” he continued with cheek. Ser Dareon just laughed, grinning, while Jaime put his sword away and shed the plate armour.

“I won’t be going easy on you, Little lord!” the knight promised when Jaime left the yard inside the ground level of Casterly Rock. Jaime looked forward to it.

Back up on the higher levels of the castle with an old letter in his pocket, he made his way to his bedchamber for a bath or be scolded for the stench, as Father called it. Passing his sister’s, Cersei’s, bedchamber, Jaime shook his head in irritation. His own was on the opposite side of Casterly Rock; a huge castle.

So deep in his silent complaints, he almost didn’t hear the cries of a babe. Tyrion.

Abandoning all lordly pretences, Jaime ran through the halls and burst through the open doorway into the nursery; no nursemaid to be seen. The sight inside was not new, but every time it was a blade to his heart.

Clearly unaware she had an audience, Cersei stood over Tyrion’s bassinette reaching in with a vicious look. “You killed our mother, you little monster,” she muttered to the babe. “Why did the Seven let you live instead of Mother?” Cersei said, pinching Tyrion and the babe cried again. “I could rid us of you so easily,” she whispered, moving her hands from his side towards his neck.

Jaime’s blood turned cold. “No! Cersei!” Jaime shouted, and ripped her hands from Tyrion. He stood in the way and Cersei stared at him, eyes wide until she blinked. “He’s just a babe!”

“He murdered Mother, Jaime!” she said with heat, trying to get around him but Jaime wouldn’t move away. “That little fiend killed her.”

“She died in childbed,” Jaime said and kept Tyrion from harm. “What if Mother died in childbed with us? Would we be monsters?”

That question silenced Cersei but she was furious. “We’re normal. He’s an abomination,” she said and swept across and out of the nursery.

Turning to his little brother there were red marks on his belly; from Cersei pinching the babe. Gently rubbing the marks and wishing he could get rid of them, Jaime startled when Tyrion’s fingers grabbed his thumb.

Jaime let Tyrion hold Jaime’s thumb, even when he it pulled to his chin. “I’ll protect you,” he whispered. When Tyrion murmured with lisp like the babe he was, Jaime smiled and retied the laces of his brother’s tunic. “You’re innocent, Tyrion.” Playing with the tiny fingers, he called for the nursemaid and took his leave.

Inside his bedchamber was the tub that awaited him like any other day, but Jaime was worried about his little brother. Cersei made it a habit of hurting their brother. Today scared him though, it was the first time he’d caught her being so close to killing him.

Father avoided the nursery and if he saw Tyrion while Jaime played with him, Father was always bitter. Servants whispered that part of Father died the day Mother died in childbed. If Father wanted Tyrion dead like Cersei did, Tyrion would be. Father always got what he wanted, but Tyrion was a dwarf babe and something Father loathed. It made Jaime uneasy.

Jaime was too small to be able to stop Father from doing something to kill Tyrion. For many years he would be too small and weak compared to Father.

Clothes on the floor, Jaime dropped the old note on his desk and got in the tub. Its steaming water relieved his muscles from training and he relished it. However, what nearly happened in the nursery bothered him. Shape and size didn’t matter to Jaime; he loved Tyrion all the same.

Washing, he frowned while looking at the water. When he becomes a squire he wouldn’t have a servant to ready a tub for him. That made the boy grimace and he shook his head free of the thought. Closing his eyes, Jaime didn’t stir when light steps sounded in his bedchamber; the lightness of clothes dropping to the floor. Next to him was a sloshing of the water, now a little deeper.

Familiar, small hands grasped his shoulders and he opened his eyes. It was Cersei who often joined him and there was an annoyed expression on her face. “What’s the matter, Cersei?” Jaime said.

The look on her face told Jaime she thought he was really stupid for asking that. “Why do you defend him?” she asked with her eyes sharp and searching. “Mother is dead because of him.”

He turned towards her so they were face to face, looking his twin in the eyes. It was wrong she was so hateful towards a babe of all things. Jaime shook his head. “The maester said it happens with hale and healthy babes too.”

Cersei seated herself in his lap and Jaime's eyes landed on the desk where sennight-old letter was. But Cersei touching him how he liked it stole his attention. Leaning forward and his sister whispered in his ear. “But far less often.”

The words stirred something within him and Jaime looked away, eyes returning to the curled letter on his desk. The little thing had left doubts in his head since he received it. The last part jumped to the front of his mind.

 _-, what does she do until you will agree?_  

On his own lips were Cersei’s, her hand cupping his cheek; but the letter kept repeating itself in his mind. Jaime sat still while she kissed him; normally he kissed her back. “Mayhaps you’re right,” Jaime muttered the lie, looking away from Cersei’s eyes. When he met her gaze, she had a smirk of victory and his heart sank.

Like boiling water, anger from the doubts being proven true bubbled and Jaime left Cersei in the tub. Getting out himself to dry off. He turned to his twin once dressed, the letter hidden within the pocket of his breeches. “Tyrion’s innocent, Cersei,” he said and left the room.  

Going to the lower levels of the aboveground rock castle, Jaime reached the stables within his home where only the family horses were kept. He walked to his destrier and ran his hand against its chest since he was too short to ruffle the mane yet.

Cersei loved him but hated Tyrion, which caused him to shift on his feet. In the tub, his sister had given the affection he normally gave back, but while giving it to him she’d talked about Tyrion and Mother’s death from childbed. Something he made sure she knew he disagreed about. It was as though she was trying to change his mind while pleasing him when they were together.

Within Jaime, sadness stirred at the idea she was trying to control him with touch.

To his misfortune, Cersei knew the stables was one of his places to think, and she appeared with her a look of glee roughly two hours after he’d left her alone in his bedchamber. Normally she found him much faster.

“Father just told me the best news,” his sister said with joy and invisible waves of happiness coming from her. “He thinks that King Aerys will agree to marry me to the prince. The prince! Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. I’m going to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaime! To marry the prince and be Cersei Targaryen. The babes will have his hair and my eyes, or my hair and his eyes!”

She was his twin and someone he’d always been close with no matter what. The excitement of Cersei when talking about marrying the prince hurt Jaime. It was as though he didn’t matter anymore. The old letter hinted at something like this.

Jaime turned away and gazed at the horse instead to hide the pain from his sister; she had a talent for knowing how he was feeling. Taking a breath and smoothing his features, Jaime gave her a smile while she couldn’t stop talking. “Have you told Uncle Kevan and Aunt Genna?” he asked.

She seemed too overwhelmed with the news and his fake cheer for her must of fooled her. “Thank the Seven, I’ll be the queen. Hm? Oh, no I haven’t. Bye Jaime!” And she was out the stables’ door rushing back to the yard and halls Casterly Rock.

Now alone, for a while at least, he took the sennight-old letter out and was reluctant to read it. There was no sigil or name saying who it was from.

_Jaime Lannister,_

_When the Lioness marries and breeds with the Dragon Prince she wants, what happens to the Lion?_

_When you disagree about something, what does she do until you will agree?_  

 

Frowning, Jaime shoved the letter in his pocket and went back up, dejected about Cersei and the letter that sparked his growing doubts.

The one place that Cersei avoided most of the time was the nursery and he didn’t want to see her right now. Inside, his babe brother played on the floor with the toys from Aunt Genna and Uncles Kevan, Tyg and Gery had gifted Tyrion. Father never gave Tyrion any gifts.

Sitting down across from Tyrion, he watched the mismatched eyes look up at Jaime. Tyrion giving a white-teethed grin. The Maester Gawen had said the last of the teeth were done and Jaime was glad. His brother wouldn’t be in pain and crying from them hurting his gums. Reaching over to the mop of hair, Jaime gave it a gentle ruffle earning a giggle that brought a brief smile to his face.

Tyrion grasped Jaime’s arm. “Big brother sad. Jaime sad,” Tyrion said with conviction.

Not wanting the reason at the front of his mind, Jaime nodded to the smart babe. “Yes, Tyrion. Jaime is sad.”

“Why?” It was asked in such an innocent voice and Jaime almost laughed.

“It’s complicated,” he said while that old letter repeated itself in his head over and over again. Out of the corner of his eyes, Father was scowling at the sight in the nursery before leaving.

“Grumpy father,” Tyrion muttered, playing with a toy but sad. “Not like me.”

Putting his hand on Tyrion’s as it held the toy, Jaime met the mismatching eyes and smiled. “I like you, little brother.”

The shine in Tyrion’s eyes lightened the mood. “Big brother nice.”

Jaime wrapped a gentle arm around Tyrion’s back. “Thanks, Tyrion.”

Tyrion grinned.


	3. Home She Swum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised April 15th 2019

SANSA STARK

_Day 26, 9 th moon, 275 AC_

Around them as they continued to sail inland was lush and green; this was the first time she’d seen Westeros like this in years. So she roved her eyes over the landscape with abandon, taking it all in. While it was a sight lightening her body, it also meant they were north of the dry deserts of Dorne.

She was supposed to being going to Dorne as agreed. Plans had been changed behind her back; Sansa swallowed and suppressed a shudder. Turning around so her view was to the deck, Prince Oberyn practised his thrusts and spins of his partisan on the deck with focus; the triple-bladed spear he was known to coat in poison before a fight.

The second prince of Dorne just quirked a smirk when he spotted her gaze; he was just as self-assured as her previous life. Sansa remained silent and shook her head, dropping her eyes to glance at her ink-stained fingers from snapping of a brittle quill over a sennight ago.

They were making port near the southron border of the Vale; a sand steed led off the slim ship and onto land where it almost danced on the grass.

“My Prince?” Sansa said, while Prince Oberyn wiped his forehead and approached with a confident strut.

“Aye, my Braavosi Trout?” he replied, grinning. The cheeky grin made her proverbial hackles rise at the moniker, but she kept her mouth shut. Prince Oberyn had taken to using the name as they sailed, but only explained why recently. Yet, no matter who she posed as, Sansa was still a Stark direwolf at heart; but a quiet, patient one that will test the waters before wading forth.

Oberyn Martell was in his prime right in front of her. For him to be so young and Princess Elia still alive, it stood to reason King Aerys II ‘The Mad King’ Targaryen was alive as well with Lord Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King.

It was essential she was careful with all she did. She’d once made the mistake of viewing people as they should be, not who they were. A folly that’d left her vulnerable to plots, especially in King’s Landing.

A flash of the Sept of Baelor and her father’s execution saddened her, but Sansa pushed the emotion aside and focused on the Dornishman. “Please, My Prince, that moniker lacks dignity,” she said, straightening her full-length sleeves and met his eyes. “And I don’t think The Blackfish would like the rivalry,” Sansa added to lighten the mood.

If she must be called a name, she needed something easily forgotten or dismissed. Prince Oberyn, also known as ‘The Red Viper’, was a name demanding attention and implied danger. ‘Braavosi Trout’ told a listener that Sansa’s story rang suspicious.

Prince Oberyn chuckled and leaned against his upright partisan, eyes shining with humour. “And what did I suggest in Gulltown after writing my sister?” he said, raising an eyebrow in mock questioning. “The formality is tiring, Little lady.”

Sansa sighed at the reminder; that particular conversation went against everything she’d been taught as a child amongst nobility. “Oberyn. You asked I call you Oberyn; ‘for the journey is long and we’re not at court’,” she answered, reciting what he’d said a sennight ago.

Taking the lull in the conversation, Sansa pretended to be unknowing of the answer when she spoke her question. “Oberyn?” He smiled in victory, but she refused to let it irritate her. “Sailors and merchants in Braavos always spoke of a longer, hotter journey to Dorne. We couldn’t have passed the Crownloads yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You are a knowledgeable girl, sweet Sansa. Tell me, how did you learn about Westeros?”

Spinning a plausible story was easy enough for her. “Without significant coin, I couldn’t buy the information, so I exchanged my time for details about my homeland.”

Oberyn rested his left hand on the partisan handle above to his right, idly leaning on. “How so?”

“My needlepoint was of good repute and Mistress Talea charged more if customers requested I did the work. The people would pay it without issue,” she began, growing confident when he remained interested. “I offered, when they made their order, to write it under another girl’s name but make it myself if they would tell me something when I later gave the finished gown; Great Houses, things about kingdoms, people of import,” she lied, the words flowing from her lips as though she was Littlefinger. The ease disgusted her.

Had she been clueless and lived her childhood in Braavos, the concept was something she would eventually have done.

Oberyn had a mischevious smile. “Was I important?”

She considered entertaining the idea but shook her head because he would want details. “I’m sorry to say they didn’t, Oberyn. Your sister was though,” she lightly teased with the lie.

It was clear his ego was bruised, but he put on a look of mock-irritation. “Ah, Elia. My sweet sister…”

“They say she has the kindest of hearts,” Sansa elaborated honestly, based on history of her past.

His eyes softened at the description. “Yes. That she is,” he said with a smile towards the south, but focused on Sansa again. “No doubt a customer took of advantage of you. What did you do?”

She’d expected this question and was ready. “I remembered who they were and pretended to be busy at the market square so one of the other girls took their future orders instead. They paid Mistress Talea’s higher price for my needlepoint. I never offered twice,” she told her story, adding a scowl at the end. Oberyn chuckled before he grew curious.

“The day I found you, you gave gold to a woman in the markets. I’ve always wondered why,” he said, a look of speculation. “Did she cross you before and made an order that day?”

“She never crossed me,” Sansa said, defending the woman she’d only spoken to twice. “Lady Daena was very kind and gave me information freely despite paying full price at her insistence. She commissioned a dress before you arrived.” It sparked a memory of the day Oberyn found her and promised passage to Dorne. “I could almost say she treated me like we were family,” she said with a small smile.

_Braavos Markets_

_With her meagre belongings and Needle, Sansa was alongside Prince Oberyn when she sighted Lady Daena, who’d paid Sansa a compliment that morning while ordering a gown to be made by her hand. So absorbed in the fact she was going back to Westeros, she almost missed the woman._

_She glanced over her shoulder and the rubies of Lady Daena caught her eye. "Excuse me, Prince Oberyn. I need only a moment." He nodded and Sansa hurried over. “My lady. Lady Daena!”_

_The escorted woman turned around but became concerned. “Good grace, Sansa! What are you doing on your own?” Lady Daena admonished._

_Sansa shook her head. “I have company, my lady. The Dornishman; a short distance away.”_

_Lady Daena rested her hand on Sansa’s arm. “Dornish? Sansa, is everything alright?”_

_She gave the woman a true smile. “He’s taking me to Westeros. Home. I’m going home.” Taking a small bag out of her pocket, she handed it to Lady Daena. “That’s why I called out. I can’t make your gown because we’re sailing on the morrow. I’m sorry, Lady Daena. Here’s the coin owed.”_

_There was a curl of Lady Daena's lips despite her expression being a little sad. “Thank you for your honesty, sweetling.”  A finger rested on Sansa's cheek and Lady Daena released a sigh. “I’m going to worry about you, Sansa. You’ve never owned a knife when you really should in this city, and now you’re about to sail across the Narrow Sea.”_

_Sansa blinked; the woman stared. "Is something wrong, my lady?"_

_The lady unstrapped something within her billowing sleeves. “Please, child, I want to you carry this. Keep it close so I know you’re a little safer,” Lady Daena asked, passing a sheathed knife to Sansa with a gentle hand. “The strap is too tight for me anyway,” she said, but it must be a lie since Lady Daena was a slender woman._

_Curious, Sansa slid it out by a margin and gasped at the rippling in the metal of the blade. “Lady Daena, it’s too much to give away,” Sansa whispered, cautious of the people around them._

_Lady Daena smiled and shook her head. “Nonsense, Sansa. Every innocent life is precious; more than a piece of metal. Take it. Dusk is before the darkness and the name of this knife. She will serve you well.”_

_“It’s -.“ Sansa suppressed her urge to debate its value. To do such a thing here was too dangerous, so she didn't resist when the Lady Daena strapped it onto Sansa. “I can’t believe you gave me this.”_

_“Best not speak of Dusk. Take care in Westeros, Sansa. You’re a sweet girl.”_

_“I will, Lady Daena. Thank you,” she promised, and was patted on the cheek. “I’ll never forget this kindness.”_

_Beside by Prince Oberyn’s again, they made for the harbour. What she’d ever done to earn that woman’s care, deep care, escaped her._

Turning her gaze towards the water, Sansa answered the original question on whether Lady Daena had wronged her. “Lady Daena gifted me a map, but Mistress Talea found and sold it," she lied and looked towards the crew securing saddlebags on the sand steed. "So why are we making port at Saltpans?”

"This bothers you," he said, casually turning the partisan's pole within his hands.

Such an unannounced change of plans stirred fret within her. “My Prince, I pray you forgive me for questioning you. I believed we were making for Dorne by ship.”

“We will indeed,” he said, but that made no sense with the ship unloading. “However, I thought it a waste not to explore first,” Prince Oberyn continued, untroubled by her line of conversation. “We’re going to Dorne, as you say, by ship. Just not immediately, Braavosi Trout.” He chuckled when she suppressed a scowl at the moniker. “Are we at court?” He turned away and approached a crate with the Martell sigil burnt into the wood.

Sansa gritted her teeth discreetly, and only because he had his back to her. “No, Oberyn,” she replied, he retrieved two items from the crate and approached. Sansa met his eyes so he would know she meant her words. “I’m sorry, Oberyn. It’s habit to use titles of respect. Mistress Talea wouldn’t have tolerated us speaking without manners.”

In truth, Sansa didn’t like surprises and this one was unwelcome. Surprises too often meant suffering or grief; sometimes both. The day she’d rescued Jeyne Poole from Ramsay’s grasp in Winterfell, the monster he was avidly flayed her legs before Theon, or _Reek_ , intervened.

“Understandable, Sansa,” he said, as he tied a leather sheath containing a knife on each of her arms. Oberyn looked up with a teasing expression. “But each time you call me ‘Prince’ as we travel, I shall call you ‘Braavosi Trout’,” the prince said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Yes, Oberyn. We do,” she grounded out, fighting the manners early on enforced by her mother. Courtesies that helped her survive in court.

He smiled with ease and led the way off of his ship. “I am glad we are, Sansa. Formality suffocates me; leave such talk for court.”

Making sure Oberyn’s gifts were secure, Sansa reached down to her skirt and swiftly pulled the laces of her deep blue skirt a certain way. Soon it was resting on her back like a sheer lightweight cloak. The identically coloured breeches she’d been wearing beneath were in full view. Their appearance was akin to a loose skirt, and stitched in a manner to fool the eye.

Lady Daena's blade, Dusk, was comfortably tied to her outer thigh and concealed by the length of the sheer skirt-turned-cloak on her shoulders. Prince Oberyn’s knives were on her upper arms and thus hidden.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side with interest. “Intriguing contraption, Sansa,” he remarked with an approving smile. “You would fit in well at Dorne; not shy of practicality instead of convention,” he continued, mounting the readied horse and offering his arm so she could sit in front of him.

“Thank you.”

Accepting the help, she glanced at the green lush fauna of Westeros from the saddle. The sight was a dream. Prince Oberyn’s horse walked, trotted and proceeded to canter across the grassy hills beside the Trident river. The sand steed was on land again after the voyage from Braavos; it galloped along the flattest of land. “What inspired you?”

Sansa closed her eyes and the memory came forth.

_“Braavos. Beautiful and deadly," Arya said, void of emotion. "Deceive people with a two-part mummer’s gown, or be dead yourself. Skirts are liabilities here, Sansa, unless you can get rid of it fast. You might need to run someday. We have only ourselves.”_

 

Sansa looked at the sky and took faltered breaths to contain the urge to sob Arya had died without Sansa even getting to bury her. Oberyn’s arm around her middle was gentle and secure. Eyes closed, Sansa controlled her breath and withheld tears. “I’ve upset you, Lady Tully," he said. "I apologise, for I do not know why.”

She shook her head. “It’s not you, Oberyn. It’s not. I miss her; Arya. She was a sister to me.” Sansa was pained, but her sister would want her to grasp this second chance with both hands.

“I pray that she rests peacefully, Sansa. Mayhaps talking about her will help?”

When she nodded, her middle was held tight and the horse quickened. “Whirlwind and spring breeze; a fighter and a lady; impulsive and patient,” Sansa said. “We were opposites of one another, but I still loved her. In Braavos, I worked with a needle while Arya fought with a sword; she called ‘Needle’,” she said, focused on the land ahead. “Half a moon before you met me, I received Needle and a note written by Arya’s hand to say she was dying. _Valar Morghulis; Look after Needl_ e it said.”

A callused hand held hers. “I’m sorry you are so grieved, my lady, but I promise you; Needle is safe.” Oberyn thumbed her knuckles. “I admit it was a strange thing to see you own such a thing. Not a sword, but something you stored with your clothes. I thought to myself, ‘Why does this dressmaker keep a sword, but not belted to her waist?’ It was a mystery, but now I understand. A keepsake and reminder of someone you loved.”

Closing her eyes, she nodded “Yes.” The rhythm of the horse was soothing. “She told me I’d be safer with the ability to run. Arya inspired me to design this when she said make something easy to remove if I must wear skirts. Slash the laces and the skirt falls to free my breeches.”

“She was wise. And you were clever, Sansa,” he said from behind her. “Beauty can be a distraction to what’s behind it; wits, wisdom, cunning. And you will grow to be beautiful, Little lady; a pretty dress will add to how dangerous you can be,” Oberyn said and when she turned around, there was a glint in his eyes. “You could be deadly using beauty to fool your enemies.”

“Thank you,” she said, focusing on the land ahead.

The horse slowed to a canter which it maintained for hours without visibly tiring; only a glimpse of what Dornish sand steeds were renowned for.

The next few days were a sombre affair and Oberyn didn’t try to push Sansa into talking about Arya as they passed Crossroads Inn and later Harroway.

On the fifth night of their journey from Saltpans, they were camped a day’s ride on River Road from Harroway and Sansa was growing tense from the prolonged, but appreciated, silence between them. Needing to break it, she used the one common ground they had after dinner.

“Oberyn?”

The prince’s attention turned to her, and a slither of doubt about her idea hovered like smoke but she pushed through.

“These knives,” she said, fingers on the straps hidden by the sheer cloak. Her companion looked at her with regard so she continued. “I’ve never fought with a weapon before. Only practise,” Sansa said, nerves suppressed. “Will you please teach me, Oberyn?”

He appeared close to delight, and Sansa smiled at the apparent restraint. “Why have knives and not know how?” he said in rhetoric, quick to his feet. “Of course, Sansa. They are to protect you after all.”

The dagger was drawn from the saddlebag and he held it by his side. Oberyn gestured to the flattest part of the clearing. “Most fights have swords, but fending off a dagger is the best way to start learning. Too much too soon and learning becomes difficult,” he said. “Women in Dorne can do this and so will you. Tell me, Sansa, do you dance?”

The question took her off guard and she lowered her knives. “Dance, Oberyn?”

“Exactly.” He grinned, and lunged forward as though he was a real viper.

On instinct from time with Arya, Sansa spun to the side and swung to deflect but found there was no blade in sight. It took a moment and held by his thigh and still sheathed was his dagger. Her face warmed with the embarrassment of missing it.

He approached and took her hand. “Do not be embarrassed, my lady,” the prince said and Sansa made eye-contact. “You hesitated, Sansa. Swift and sure, and you will prevail. Knife fighting is like a dance. Footwork and watch your fellow dancer’s eyes.” Oberyn stepped away and gave an encouraging smile along with a small bow. “Will you dance with me, my lady?”

Smiling back and glad for the lightened mood, Sansa bobbed a curtsy. “I am honoured, My Prince,” she japed, and Oberyn quirked a smile.

For two hours, Oberyn tutored her on the basics of knife fighting; waste no energy, no flourishing, watch the eyes, stand side on, be prepared for them to have moved to a new place.

By the end of it, Sansa rested on a log and the night chill cooled her face. “Here,” Oberyn said, his waterskin offered to her. She took a drink. “I imagine you wish to bathe in the river?” he said and walked over to pick up his partisan, stood beside his sand steed and back faced the water. “It is dark and no one is here to leer at you.”

Her body was of a child, so she lacked the appeal of a woman grown. There were people in Westeros with perversions, but the manner he’d taken a watchful position and given her privacy suggested he was no such man. Sansa nodded and approached the saddlebag containing her spare clothes and a linen towel. “Thank you, Oberyn, I do.”

He met her gaze to nod and turned back towards the road ahead of him.

Sansa was hesitant at first, but removed her clothes and quick to enter the water. It was cold, however she forced herself to remain there and grow accustom to it. Despite Oberyn's reputed debauchery, she had to acknowledge how he’d been honourable while on the confines of his ship from Braavos.

Further at ease when she failed to catch the prince looking in her direction now, she went through the motions of bathing as though she was alone.

Grateful, Sansa wasted no time getting out and dressed. It was with quick hands she scrubbed the stains from her soiled mummer’s gown and breeches; hung to dry near the fire.

The woman in a girl’s body approached Oberyn who still stood by his horse. “Thank you, Oberyn.”

Lowering his partisan, he nodded. “Not a problem, Little lady.”

While she settled down on a blanket by the fire with her back to the river there was a rustle and sounding splash behind her; Oberyn bathing, no doubt.

For a sennight, the routine was established; break their fast and camp, eat lunch in the saddle, dinner beside a campfire, followed by knife training and making use of the river. Hardened from the past, Sansa was slow to give trust. However, her guarded manner towards Prince Oberyn was chipped away day by day.

Not once had he breached the limits of friendship. She was awash with guilt for her caution towards Oberyn, but she’d been hurt too many times by men and women alike; each in their different ways.

On the morning of the twelfth day since Saltpans, they crested a hill and ahead stood the splendour of Riverrun. “Here we are, Braavosi Trout. You’ve swum home.”

Words failed Sansa. Riverrun and not an Other in sight; guards manned the walls. Passing through the towns were nothing compared to this. She brought a hand to her mouth and grasped the saddlehorn with the other. Her appearance of a Tully could not be disputed thanks to her likeness to her mother.

Hoster Tully, her maternal grandfather, held a reputation of shrewdness and schemes. If the man didn’t recognise the risks towards House Tully by turning away a girl near identical to his eldest daughter, then he wasn’t Hoster Tully.

The sight of Riverrun in a peaceful and alive state was a balm to her. Hope rose in her with a pinch of scepticism, given Mother’s bitterness towards Jon Snow during Sansa’s girlhood. In essence, Sansa would be a bastard walking into Riverrun and uproot the lives of House Tully, including Catelyn Tully. She will be another Jon Snow brought to Winterfell. Names were the only difference.

She took a breath and sighed. A callused thumb ran along her knuckles. “My lady. Do you need a moment?”

“Yes please, Oberyn,” she said. “I want to be composed when I meet my family.”

“Understandable.”

In silence and astride the fire-red mane sand steed, Sansa stared at Riverrun. In girlhood, Sansa once aspired to be the lady her mother wanted of her, including following the ways of the Faith. Influence of the Faith was stronger here than in the North, and Riverrun was bound to have a septa teaching the children. Followers of the Old Gods were more receptive of bastards and spared Jon some of the Faith’s brunt he would of faced in the south.

There would be no such mercy for Sansa here, but Riverrun was the best chance towards success. Acceptance from all of House Tully will be improbable at worst and difficult at best. Like her time in the Vale with Littlefinger as Alayne, Sansa must prepare herself for a new life.

She will always love Catelyn Stark, her mother, but she had to let go of hope of seeing that woman again. Seeing her again as a mother was impossible.

Should, by some miracle, Catelyn Tully not look down upon Sansa and become a sister in true sense of the word, Sansa would make her peace with the new future in regards to her. What would become of Lysa Tully was an unknown factor and something she silently prayed to steer in an improved direction. Petyr Baelish would be here.

She sighed and dropped her gaze.

"My lady," Oberyn said. "There is no shame in fearing what's yet to come." He lightly ghosted her knuckles with a kiss. "It's facing the fear that makes one brave."

Sansa did not fear entering Riverrun. Should she be rejected by Hoster Tully, Dorne might become her new home if she endeared herself to the Martell family well enough. Mayhaps influence the future through House Martell. Dorne would be her contingency, weak of one it was.

With one glance at Riverrun, Sansa dismounted and loosened the laces of her cloak until it slipped over her shoulders towards her waist where she tied them. Her sleeved bodice and versatile skirt became a single dress; breeches concealed. "I suppose I best look the part of a lady, Prince Oberyn," she commented and reached out for his arm to remount, but sidesaddle, in front of him on the black sand steed.

"Indeed, Braavosi Trout. And a dangerous one that fools the eye."

Sansa gave a weak chuckle as she released her hair from its ties. A desire for wind in her hair was strange but something about it was freeing. She turned to Oberyn. "Once we reach the bridge, you can't call me that moniker anymore. And I'll be required to address you by your title." Her lips quirked when his face had a half-hearted grimace.

"Very well, Little lady."

His circumvention of formalities amused Sansa and made her body lighter. "And Oberyn?" she said with ill-hidden mischief. Sansa turned her head towards him.

An eyebrow rose in question. "Yes?"

"Don't show off," she said.

The prince leaned back and chortled. "Me?" Oberyn spurred his black horse into a gallop, its fire-red mane waved in the wind.

A firm grip around her waist kept her in place and they thundered towards a lowered drawbridge. Sansa giggled at Oberyn's antics in spite of herself, which turned to laughter by the time they were at the bridge. The prince rode in a circle until the horse slowed to a walk. "I see a little boy. Jealous one too," he whispered, and dismounted to help her down by the waist. He added a kiss to her knuckles with a bow.

Sansa wouldn’t lie to herself and deny she had fun with the moment of foolishness. Neither would she ruin his, for she couldn’t find it in her heart to do so. Her last moment of laughter was so long ago.

"Cat?" a young Braavosi voice said.

The accent soiled her mood, but she didn't let it show. Turning around, the closeness startled her and she stepped back.

"You look radiant, Cat," Petyr said, the boy looked a little self-conscious. This boy version of Littlefinger clashed with the sly, honey-worded man she’d learnt so much from. It disoriented her for a moment. "I have something. For you, I mean. I picked some flowers," he said, words fumbled. It was nothing like his smooth lies later in life.

He thrusted out his hand holding wildflowers; the movement made her jump back. But her feet touched nothing.

"Cat!"

"Lady Catelyn!"

"SANSA!"

Petyr, the guards and Oberyn were above on the bridge. Pulling out a knife, Sansa slashed the laces of her deep blue skirt and sheathed the knife with haste. A running river beneath her.

Above her, the skirt billowed out and drifted downwards like an overlong Tully banner with the embroidered white trouts on it. The fabric slowly descending towards her. There was a flurry of motion on the bridge but her back impacted with the river like a slap to her back.

She swam as Mother had taught her and broke the surface free of struggle in only her breeches and bodice. Right next to her was Oberyn offering to hold her above water. Sansa shook her head and trod water so she could search for a boat near a ledge along the river surrounding Riverrun. The ledge wasn’t far, so Sansa searched for her skirt, retrieved it and swam towards the opening. “This way.”

He wasn’t far behind her and kept his voice low. “Looks like the Braavosi Trout _can_ swim.”

Sansa glared at him with the steel of a Stark. “Thank you for the assessment, _My Prince_ ,” she answered in kind, and turned in the water to hoist herself up with her arms. “This is not what I had in mind this morning,” she said, water dripped from the wrung fabric of the skirt she’d deliberately chosen for today; Tully colours and embroidery. “It had to be the bridge…”

Water sloshed and Oberyn climbed up onto the same ledge nearby and sat next to her. “Are you alright?” he asked and looked her over. Like water, guilt soaked her for grumbling over an accident. Sansa turned to apologise but he gave a dismissive wave. Oberyn’s focus was towards the drawbridge; an expression of pondering. “Looks like you are a true Tully, Little lady.”

“This wasn’t how I imagined meeting my family,” Sansa said to herself, but paused and turned to Oberyn. “Pray forgive me, but what did you just say?”

Oberyn gestured up at an audience gathering high above them on the other side of the river. Petyr Baelish at the forefront with a redhead girl on either side of him; girls close in their ages. “The older girl,” he said. “I’d dare say you’re twins. You did not lie to me in Braavos.”

Sansa had given him little honesty since meeting him in Braavos. Nearly everything she’d said was a fabrication. Arya was the exception. She turned her eyes to the other girl when movement draw her attention; the last memory of the youngest made Sansa shiver; Lysa.

Behind Sansa were multiple set of footsteps now, a tone of authority summoned her attention. “Shain!” a man snapped. “Stop gawking like a fool and have some sense man! By the Seven, get the girl a linen and dress before she freezes! Winter lingers and she’ll need a maester if you tarry.”

With a glance beside herself, Oberyn grinned at the man. “Blackfish!” he said. “It should’ve been I on the land and you in the water, no?” Oberyn’s face had no remorse upon uttering the cheek.

She glowered at him, but it went unnoticed for he wasn’t looking her way and some of the guards chuckled softly. Uncle Brynden appeared mildly amused.

Once her damp skirt was around her waist to conceal her figure, for her breeches clung to her legs, Sansa sought to put an end to this. “I do not think now is the time to be japing about monikers, Prince Oberyn,” she said.

When the Blackfish looked at her, Sansa curtsied and met his gaze without turning away from the stare of Tully blue eyes. “I’d think you’re Catelyn hadn’t Oberyn Martell shouted a different name,” Uncle Brynden seriously said. “So, _Sansa,_ ” he said as though testing the name. “Where did you come to be in the company of the Red Viper?”

“A Braavosi market square, my Lord Uncle,” she said, determined to rely on truth instead of lies. Becoming a female version of Littlefinger repulsed her. “We met a moon ago and travelled here since.” Lies will always be a part of her life; this life. However, that didn’t mean she couldn’t avow to honesty when it wasn’t dangerous to do so.

Uncle Brynden blinked and stared at her. "You're of Tully blood; I can see that. The Baelish boy couldn’t tell you apart from Catelyn, nor the guards," he said, and dismissed the men behind him. He watched them leave until the last was gone. "But there were no Tully twins. No babes snatched in the night. What do you know about your life?"

Sansa squared her shoulders and crafted an answer with what truths she could afford. "Very little, my Lord Uncle. My earliest memory is when I was three, learning my letters in Braavos; Low Valyrian in Braavos; Westerosi in Braavos. I earned my coin with needlework in an establishment. I was told my name and that of my parents by Mistress Talea, but nothing more."

"Mistress Talea?" Brynden repeated, watching Sansa carefully. “Who was this woman?”

Oberyn intervened. "In true? Nearly her Braavosi owner.” The description made her bristle, but she kept the irritation to herself; this conversation wasn't worth the semantics. “Sansa was but a smallfolk there, Lord Tully. Very little coin to her name," Oberyn said, and gave her an apologetic look.

The attention of the Blackfish shifted to Oberyn. Talked about while she was in front of her uncle made Sansa’s hackles rise, but she stamped down the urge to speak for herself since she was a child in their eyes. "And you met how? The girl’s told me where," the man needled, no doubt searching for a hole in their story.

Oberyn could ruin her chances if he wasn’t diplomatic enough. His traits were of a fighter, not a negotiator.

"A dressmaker's stall,” Oberyn said. "I know dedicated craftsmanship from average and remarked on a dress suitable for my sister, Elia. Sansa stepped forward in thanks. She didn’t look Braavosi and claimed to be your brother's and goodsister's daughter. Naturally, I had doubts, but she knew your words and has Tully colouring."

Uncle Brynden didn’t hide the scepticism. "And so you granted a child passage?"

"And so I did."

Sansa saw the reluctance in Uncle Brynden and took a step towards the man. She’d had such hope to be accepted here, but the journey had clearly been a waste. She swallowed and broke the silence, shoulders square to control her emotions. “I heard a phrase from a White Harbour merchant once that’s quite fitting to my one request,” she said.

Oberyn looked at her with curiosity while Brynden just watched. Her companion tilted his head. “Lady Sansa? What do you request?”

Allowing her longing for peace to bleed into her voice, Sansa recited words she had lived by. “‘The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.’” The men looked intrigued, but she ploughed on while she still had the chance. “If the Lord Paramount of the Trident deems I am not his trueborn daughter, he will say ‘Sansa Rivers’ to my face.” If Riverrun fails, she will go to Sunspear.

Collecting herself internally, Sansa was silent and waited for Brynden Tully’s response. Coming down the stairs to this ledge were soft steps and Sansa turned.

A woman heavy with child, and a boy of one on her hip came into view from behind Blackfish. “Cat, sweetling, why did you jump into the Red Fork?” she asked with a warm voice, looking over Sansa’s face. The lady shook her head and led Sansa upstairs with a gentle hand. “Come along, Catelyn, let’s get you in a bath before you catch a cold.”

Sansa obeyed the brunette in numb shock. She had the same face as Mother; as Sansa. But her hair was brown. Minisa Tully. A grandmother she'd never met.

Beside her grandmother, Sansa gave her head a little shake. ‘Grandmother’ was the wrong title to be using in this life. If she was accepted here by the Lord and Lady of Riverrun, she must refer to them as ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’, because it was a risk to mix details of her previous life with the reality of this one. Sansa was of an age with her blood parents and mustn’t call them such.

Her grandmother was rubbing her back and the friction brought warmth to her skin. Gazing at her, Sansa struggled to shake how alike their faces were when she compared Minisa’s to her own as Lady of Winterfell.

“Minisa, wait!” Blackfish shouted from the bottom of the stairs, boots pounding on the stone to follow them. “That’s not your daughter, but a bastard!”

“You’ve lost your wits, Brynden,” Minisa said and proceeded to lead Sansa away while he followed. “Find them and don’t talk about bastardy to Cat again. Leave her be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely had a different direction for the end of this chapter, but I saw Minisa was plausibly alive at this point. She barged into my story at literally the last minute.


	4. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expanded and revised 19 April 2019

 SANSA STARK

_Day 15, 10 th moon, 275 AC_

Through Riverrun, Sansa followed Lady Minisa who carried a small Edmure on her hip until they reached a nursery. Inside the decorated chamber was a collection of toys by a corner, and positioned against the wall was a cot with many painted trout.

Lady Minisa approached the cot and lowered Edmure with care. “There we go, my little lord,” she whispered to him and stroked his side with a gentle hand. She looked at Sansa. “Cat, could you close the curtains please?”

Obedient, Sansa took one curtain and pulled until its full length blocked half the light. She repeated the process and all three of them were wrapped in darkness despite the time of day. A little yawn filled the nursery; the yawn of an innocent untarnished by the world. Beside the cot, Lady Minisa murmured, but it was too soft for Sansa to hear.

She was in Westeros; at Riverrun. And the Tully features of Sansa’s appearance should provide a strong case of her belonging to the family.

By the curtains, Sansa took a breath and sighed. Should she choose to build her life on lies, there will come a day a mistake was uttered and get her caught. “My Lady Tully,” she said. “I'm not Catelyn.” Quiet steps neared her and Sansa turned her head towards them as she braced herself. “I look like her-”

A thumb stroked her shoulder and the same hand lightly rested there. “I know,” Lady Minisa said. “You're Sansa, aren't you?”

She released a whisper of a breath. “I am, my lady. Though why you did speak to Ser Brynden as if convinced I was Catelyn?” In the dark, Sansa smiled and relief flowed through her. If Minisa Tully was behaving receptive to Sansa’s presence there was hope yet.

The hand guided her from the window. “Winter has finally begun to thaw, and you’re cold to the touch from the river, Sansa. Come with me,” Lady Minisa said, and led Sansa to the door. “We'll speak more in private, but I'll call you Catelyn in the halls.”

With a nod, she followed Lady Minisa again but the walk was a few doors down the hall. Through a feminine solar and into a generous bedchamber, Sansa’s eyes landed on a ready tub. “My lady?” She turned to Lady Minisa. “Do you wish for me to assist?” A tub wouldn’t be ready yet if it had been prepared for her; much less here.

There was a smile and Lady Minisa shook her head. “Unless you bathe you could fall ill, Sansa,” she said and set a stool beside the tub. “We need to speak and soon. So mine can wait.” Seated with her back somewhat to Sansa, Lady Minisa rubbed her swollen belly in idle circles. “Just let me know when you’re in.”

Sansa unlaced and allowed her mummer’s gown and shift to fall once her knives were on the floor. The steamy water shocked her skin, but with a few breathes it became a warm pleasure instead of hot. “This is very kind of you, my lady. Thank you,” Sansa said with her own back to Lady Minisa for some privacy. She crossed her arms and gazed at the water, but looked over her shoulder to her grandmother.

Lady Minisa’s gaze was gentle. “Your colouring is Tully, and your face is akin to my own – Whent. Yet Hoster and I aren’t your parents,” she said, her brown eyes watched Sansa. "Who are?"

She sighed. Honesty would confuse her grandmother, no doubt, but she needed to prove herself trustworthy. If Sansa gave it in pieces instead of one single answer, it should be more digestible than shocking. A glance at the closed door built courage within her and she met Lady Minisa’s eyes. “My mother’s blood was Tully and Whent, my lady,” Sansa said. “And my father’s blood, on both sides, was Stark.”

Sansa was silent and held her gaze with Lady Minisa. The woman’s eyebrows were furrowed and a hand fiddled with loose fabric. “Such information suggests…” She brought a hand towards Sansa’s face and hesitated, but Sansa rested her cheek against the palm. “My face; Catelyn’s; and yours. And ‘Sansa’ is a Northern name.” Lady Minisa sigh was prolonged and she shook her head with a confused expression.

“My lady?” Sansa asked, straightening up. “I don’t deny this is strange-” A finger rested on her lips.

The finger moved away and those brown eyes met Sansa’s blue. “My thoughts don’t matter,” Lady Minisa told her. “What truly matters is you're here, and near identical to my eldest; but paler skin.” Fingers ran through Sansa’s hair. “A more vibrant red. Otherwise, you look so much like her.”

Sansa’s eyes closed when a gentle touch brushed through her hair, she opened them. The closeness Lady Minisa acted with was both odd but warming to Sansa.

“Tully eyes. Tully blue,” Lady Minisa said. “It’s no wonder you came to Riverrun.” Lady Minisa looked at Sansa with intent. “Am I wrong that you’re roughly ten?”

She nodded. “I am. And between ten and eleven,” she said, withholding her mental age of twenty-six. “My lady, what do you believe will happen? Lord Tully has no doubt heard about this morning’s incident.”

Lady Minisa smiled and ran her fingers through Sansa’s hair, the sensation left a sigh on the edge of Sansa’s lips. “He will want to speak with me if I know him. His decision will be the final one, so I can't really answer,” Lady Minisa said. Warm water ran down Sansa’s back. “Could you answer two questions and allow me to wash your hair? I need time to think about this.”

There was no surprise in her grandmother’s need for silence to process the information Sansa had flooded her with. “Of course, my lady.” Sansa turned in the water and met Lady Minisa’s eyes again. “What do you wish to ask?”

“If you are who you imply, at what age was your mother betrothed and to whom?”

Sansa kept her eyes on the brown ones of Lady Minisa. “She was betrothed to Brandon Stark when she was twelve, my lady.” Tempted as she was to be honest, Sansa mustn’t share her father had been Eddard Stark, not her uncle, Brandon. Such information could cause changes too soon and strip Sansa of advantageous knowledge. To flounder in the unknown could lead to more harm than good.

Expression serious, the woman nodded and tucked a lock behind Sansa’s ear. “Sansa, did you come here in want of a home and family?” Lady Minisa said with a bottle in her lap. “Should this be true, do you understand what you must give up if you’re to stay at Riverrun?”

She nodded her head to the woman stroking her hair. “I do,” Sansa said solemnly. “And, my lady, I’ve made my peace with it. I will see everyone, but their interactions with me will be different. It’s illogical to expect the same again.” She turned away and stared at the water.

Behind her was a sigh of pity. “There’s more to it than that, Sansa.” Lady Minisa said. A light grasp gathered her hair and water dripped onto her neck. “You need to understand you must let go and accept the situation. A new life starts with a new canvas; blank. Everything from before is a memory.” A hand rested on her shoulder. “It’s a difficult thing to accept, but the sooner you do the better off you will be.” The hand gave a light squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

Sansa’s nod was small so her hair wouldn’t pull. A hand tilted her chin up and water from a bucket pour through her hair. “I know, my lady.”

“Minisa,” the woman whispered, guided Sansa to standing and placed a folded towel into her hands. The lady turned her back to Sansa, who got out of the tub and dried herself.

She wrapped herself within the towel, for lack of anything clean to wear, but remained beside the tub. “Pardon?” she asked and approached her seated grandmother.

Lady Minisa turned on the stool and met her gaze with a soft expression. “Call me ‘Minisa’ in private, Sansa,” Minisa said, stood and hovered a hand above Sansa’s shoulder. “May I?”

When she gave silent consent, Minisa lowered the hand and stroked Sansa’s shoulder with an idle thumb. It was peculiar behaviour to instruct a child known for less than a few hours to call Lady Minisa by only her name. Should her grandmother grow attached to Sansa, there was a better chance of success and trust in the future. “Minisa. I’m not uncomfortable, but why do you ask I call you by your name?”

Gently, her hand was taken within Minisa’s. “Deep down I'm conflicted when you’re formal with me. I suspect I’d feel the same if Catelyn or Lysa call me 'my lady'.” With a guiding hand, Minisa sat Sansa down at the vanity. “Could you pass me the brush?”

As bid, Sansa picked up the brush and turned to give it to Minisa. “I don’t understand,” Sansa said, looking her in the eyes. “You’ve already been rather accommodating, Minisa, and gave up your own bath.”

The brush ran through Sansa’s hair and in the looking glass Minisa was gazing at the red hair. Stroke by stroke, it became neater until it shined. “I felt as though I should. You'd fallen into the river,” she said, handing the brush to Sansa.

With care, she placed it on the table and turned, giving a smile. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Minisa brought Sansa to standing and led the way to a wardrobe. Inside was a variety of dresses for a woman, but Minisa reached in and pulled forth an outfit made for a child. “When I heard Catelyn had fallen into the Red Fork, I knew she would need a warm bath to fight off the chill. So I got this; it should fit you, Sansa,” Minisa said, and gave her a dress in the Tully colours.

The dress in Sansa’s hands was laced at the back, unlike those Sansa made with lacing at the front so she could get dressed without help. Such luxuries as handmaids were unavailable in Braavos for Sansa, so she’d needed to make an alternative. Nonetheless, she was grateful for Minisa’s care despite her effectively being a complete stranger. “Thank you, Minisa,” she said, the dress and smallclothes within her arms.    

Minisa smiled and thumbed Sansa’s shoulder. “I’ll give you some privacy and wait in the Lady's solar,” she said, a slow walk to the door. “Just call when you need me for the laces. Catelyn would be doing Riverrun ledgers now, so call for her if I’ve left.”

“I will.”

Minisa made to grab the handle but stopped to turn to Sansa. “I ask only you say nothing to explain why you’re here or who you are. I don’t want my family frightened with gossip of magic,” she said. “Even my husband.”

“I promise, Minisa,” she said. In the Eyrie, she’d lived as Alayne Stone; Littlefinger’s bastard daughter. If rumours of her being a bastard developed here and she was turned away from Riverrun, it would have no, or at least limited, impact on her abilities in Dorne to change the future through the Martell family. Princess Elia had been the wife of faithless Rhaegar last time. Endear herself to Princess Elia and there was a chance of success.

“I just want to keep my family safe,” Minisa said. “Claim you were raised told you are my trueborn daughter; it’s more believable. The request isn’t to make things more difficult for you.” 

“Family. Duty. Honour,” Sansa said. With a glance at the door, Sansa moved away so no one would see her when the door is opened.

She chuckled at her words. “Just so, Sansa. When Catelyn finishes in the Lady’s solar, tell her you’re both to go to the Lord’s solar.” When Sansa nodded, Minisa left the bedchamber. The door closed quietly behind her.

The dress was one made for everyday wear instead of the presence of lords, but Sansa cared more that she had something for now. Although not a mummer’s gown, which she could conceal her knives with, she made do with this one and strapped all three knives to her legs under the shift. With no valuable possessions except for Dusk, Sansa wanted to keep anything of little or much value close.

Without tarrying, she was dressed but needed someone for the laces at the back. Inside the Lady’s solar was a girl seated alone at the desk and writing on parchment.

“Lady Catelyn?” Sansa said with her eyes on the child version of who’d been her mother.

The girl looked up and set her quill down. “It's Sansa, isn’t it?” she asked and stood. Sansa nodded. “My mother said you would need help with laces.”  

“I do,” she said and stepped aside within the bedchamber.

In front of the looking glass with Catelyn behind her, Sansa was flooded with choices while her laces were pulled and, at the top, tied. She’d been told by Minisa not to say a word in regard to her identity, and sparking a conversation would stir curiosity within Catelyn.

Catelyn walked to Sansa’s side and looked into the looking glass, frowning. “Turn to me.”

Wary of what could happen; she spoke not a word and obliged Catelyn. A mouth kept shut was the best for Sansa right now, so she watched what the older girl did; specifically the eyes. They darted between her hair and her face. Catelyn was judging her and her lips tightening.

“Younger than me, but older than Lysa,” Catelyn said, her eyes met Sansa’s and they narrowed. “You’re a bastard, aren’t you?”

Coldness engulfed Sansa as though she’d fallen into the freezing Red Fork again. If this is how Jon felt before he joined the Night’s Watch, she didn’t blame his decision. Maintaining the eye-contact, Sansa kept herself tall. To anticipate was one thing, but to hear the words uttered was another. Those words delivered by her former mother sapped her of hope for a good start.

“I take it you’re finished with the ledgers, Lady Catelyn?” Sansa asked and turned her attention to the looking glass so she could do a thin braid on either side that met behind her head. The rest cascaded down her shoulders and back. Simple, elegant and done in moments with enough practise. She turned to Catelyn who scowled.

“Yes. Follow me.”

Catelyn strode out of the Lady’s bedchamber and through the solar without pause. In moments they were outside a closed door with at least two, mayhaps three, people inside if one was silent. The adults of House Tully; Sansa had met two of three with yet to hear Lord Hoster Tully. The voices were muffled.

“Brynden, Minisa. Enough,” presumably Lord Hoster said with authority.

Sansa refused to take a bracing breath in front of Catelyn after such cold conversation. To look weak and unsure would encourage Catelyn to believe Sansa was a bastard; despite how close to the truth that might as well be.

She knocked.

“Come in,” called the same voice.

Catelyn opened the door and entered first. Going in herself, Sansa was close behind her and cast her eyes around the solar. They landed on Minisa, who gave her a small smile.

On the other side of the desk was a man she’d never met, and like Minisa his hair was also brown. Also in the solar, but auburn hair like Catelyn and Sansa was the first Tully she’d met in this life; Uncle Brynden. In a seat, Uncle Brynden had a sour look about him, but the other man watched her. The first man had to be Lord Hoster; her grandfather.

However, unless Minisa had told him, he would be unaware of his relation to her. This was another instance of Sansa jumping from one circumstance to another, leaving her in a position of cooperating no matter what. She’d lived a pawn’s life under Cersei and later Littlefinger, but she needed better now. She needed the best outcome possible; she must be ‘Tully’, not ‘Rivers’. At court, the difference would be astounding.

Tullys weren’t the descendants of kings like House Stark, but have the Tully name and she would be more valuable in the eyes of Westeros as a lord paramount’s trueborn daughter. She had to pursue it with determination but keep her manners to appeal to Lord Hoster.

Within the area between comfortable seating and the desk, she curtsied deeply; her eyes on him. “My Lord Tully.” Dare to be presumptuous and call him ‘Father’ was equal to a step in the wrong direction. Beyond reproach was essential in Riverrun right now. She turned towards Minisa and curtsied again. “My Lady Tully. I apologise for the inconveniences I’ve caused you.”

Minisa shook her head and gave a smile from where she sat to the side of Lord Hoster. “There’s nothing to forgive, Sansa,” she said. “Catelyn, Sansa. Make yourselves comfortable.” The Lady of Riverrun exchanged a look with its lord, but there was silence between them.

She followed the instructions and sat beside Catelyn, but met her gaze on the man who’d decide her position, or if she had one. “My Lord Tully, you wished to see me?”

Lord Hoster nodded and rested his chin on raised wrists, eyes going between Minisa, Catelyn and Sansa. The Lord's face gave nothing but calm, while his eyes repeated the cycle once more. He lowered his hands onto the desk. “I did, young lady,” he said seriously. “Here you sit before me beside my eldest, and near-identical to her. Both of you greatly resemble my wife. You have the blood of Tully and Whent for all to see.”

Uncle Brynden crossed his arms, but Sansa returned her attention to Lord Hoster and nodded with demure. Lord Hoster had spoken facts, not questions.

He straightened in his seat and held Sansa’s gaze. “We’re sorry we sent you to Harrenhal since you were a babe, but I had to protect your mother from ailments. Both I and your mother were relieved when you returned upon defeating your illnesses.”

Grasping the story, Sansa cooperated and bowed her head. “I understand, Father. When the maester said I was finally hale and healthy, it joyed me to know I could come back home.”

Beside Sansa were two sources of rustling fabric. Catelyn and Uncle Brynden, the latter’s lips were tight and his eye bore into her.

“Catelyn,” Lord Hoster said. “Shortly after Sansa was brought into the world, she was raised away from Riverrun. To have a babe who kept falling ill and your mother becoming sick, it was too dangerous. Not to mention you were only a year old. I couldn’t risk it. It was for the safety of your mother I sent your sister away.”

Sansa turned and beside her, Catelyn’s stare was wide-eyed but changed to uncomfortable and tinged with suspicion. Refusing to let it bother her, she gave her new father her full attention. It was a fool’s choice to attempt living and giving one title to a person with her voice but a different one in her mind. She had to choose if she was not to address anyone with their mental name by accident. To call her former mother ‘Mother’ would be a disaster.

To survive the game of thrones this time, it was essential she used what their names would have been to her had she truly been Lord Hoster’s daughter. She’d done the same as Alayne Stone and called Littlefinger ‘Father’, so she could do it. The difference this time was addressing her grandparents as her actual parents; a more personal matter than parading as Alayne Stone.

“Sansa,” Father said. “Your mother and I never told anyone about you, because you were so sickly I suspected you would die. With such a resemblance to your mother, Westeros would believe she had an affair; she didn’t. You will stay in Riverrun for at least a moon so Westeros has a chance to accept the truth once I spread it. Is this understood?”

“Yes, Father, it is.”

“Sansa,” Minisa addressed with gentle eyes. “Could you repeat to us what you last said while speaking with Uncle Brynden?”

There was no favourable person in Sansa saying it. “It was a moment of strong emotions, Mother. I was happy to finally be home, but feared for my future,” she said demurely, but Minisa’s body language was expectant. She took a breath and nodded. “Yes, Mother. I requested that ‘If the Lord Paramount of the Trident deemed I am not his trueborn daughter, he will say ‘Sansa Rivers’ to my face’,” Sansa said despite her fear of reprimand, and omitted the Stark reference. “I’ve been raised with the Tully name for as long as I can remember.”

Uncle Brynden was on the cusp of scowling at Sansa.

“No one will be calling you ‘Sansa Rivers’,” Father reassured her. “The Citadel and Great Houses of Westeros will be told about your past; a sickly babe sent to a trusted healer in Harrenhal to protect my wife and heir. And when you had finally grew hale and healthy, you were escorted to Riverrun to reunited with the family.”

Sansa met his eyes. “Thank you for not casting me aside. I apologise my words are so few.”

The apology was dismissed with a small wave. “You are the second born daughter of my wife and me,” he said. “You will act with decorum as I have seen, and in no instance will you dress to a lesser standard than you are here in my solar. It is no less than I expect from Catelyn or Lysa, for they are your sisters,” he told her and stood to approach her. A man’s hand rested on her shoulder. “There will be a ceremony of the seven oils in the sept on the morrow.”

“Yes, Father,” Sansa promised, happy of his decision. “I shall bring no shame to our house.”

Catelyn’s breathing faltered and Sansa turned to her. “What of Lysa, Father? You’d let this _girl_ usurp her as your second child?”

“Catelyn,” Father scolded. “Lysa loses nothing. Sansa is your oldest sister but raised at your grandfather’s castle.”

Mother rose from beside Father, approached Sansa and led her out the solar. “You needn’t hear this, Sansa. I apologise for her behaviour.”

“It was to be expected, Mother. I am suddenly changing matters regarding her family from her view,” Sansa said. Catelyn's words stung and she did her best to brush them off. “To imagine I would be accepted here without resistance from anyone is but a fool’s belief. I know what was truly said within the solar. Uncle Brynden is not in favour of this either.”

Minisa nodded at her words. “You’re not a stupid girl, Sansa. You understand at least this much about the world.” Mother stepped back and took a full look at Sansa. “I know the story is a falsehood; your father and I agreed to it. My father in Harrenhal will know as well.” Hands slow, Mother fiddled with Sansa’s loose locks. “For the life of me when I look at you, my heart and eyes tell me the story could very well be true. To me, you are my daughter.”

A persistent smile emerged and her cheeks warmed. “Mayhaps the babe is making you overly emotional, Mother?” Sansa suggested, walking beside the woman down the hall. Ahead, Oberyn watched both of them and she gave him a nod of acknowledgement. He didn’t move, face solemn and eyes fixed on Minisa Tully, but left with quick strides. “But thank you.”

“Mayhaps, Sansa,” Mother said. “Mayhaps, yet such likeness...Please don’t take Brynden’s bitterness to heart if you can. Every time I’m with child he channels his regrets behind your father’s back, yet he refuses to marry any suggested house.”

 Mother ran a hand along Sansa’s arm and Sansa nodded. “I can handle it,” Sansa said.

“You shouldn’t have to,” said Mother. Within a chamber came the giggles of a little boy and they entered. The walls were filled with books; in the centre was a table, but in a corner and playing with toys was Edmure. “I thought I put you to bed, lordling,” Mother scolded and picked him up. The toddler snuggled against her. “Let’s get you back in it.”

A yank of Sansa’s hair made her yelp. Giggles filled the air.

From a seat, a male chuckle filled the library. Oberyn Martell had multiple books on his end of the table while he was in a comfortable seat against the wall; in his lap was an open book and beside him on a small table was ink, parchment and a quill. “The mischief of babes,” Oberyn said.

A soft hand stroked Sansa’s head and she turned so she could see, although it was likely Mother’s. And it was. “Sansa, are you alright?”

Sansa nodded. “I will be, Mother.”

Mother gave a sympathetic smile. “I’ll put Edmure in bed and hopefully he stays in it.” Sansa new mother turned to Oberyn. “What was he doing in here?”

From where he sat, Oberyn shrugged. “Your youngest brought him here, I assume. Lady Lysa was leaving when I came.”

With a nod, Mother was walking away with Edmure. “Let’s get you back in bed, Edmure.”

Soon they were out of sight leaving Sansa and Oberyn in the library. At the central table, Sansa read the book titles. “Warcraft; Healing; Governance; Higher Mysteries; Dark Arts,” she rattled off and looked at the last book with mirth. “I hadn’t considered you to be a person with an interest in books, Oberyn,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Poisons. Well, you would not be the Red Viper without knowledge on poison.”

“Indeed not,” he chuckled, the feather of his quill brushed against his chin, the thoughtful expression was abandoned and he relaxed. “Links with rust are poor, no?”

“Links?” she repeated, blinking. “A maester’s chain? You, Oberyn?" He grinned at her. "It’s hard to believe,” she said. Oberyn was rarely vague but she'd grown used to his nuances over the past moon.

He gave a brief shrug. “I grew bored after the sixth link,” Oberyn admitted. “Could you see me in a maester’s garb?” he japed, raising an eyebrow and returned to his notes beside him.

Sansa stifled a laugh and beside Oberyn was a list of names, but not people. They sounded like toxins or benign substances. “No,” she said, amusement in her tone despite her efforts. “You’re too impulsive.”

The Dornishman glanced up and grinned. “Impertinent brat. What happened to Little lady's courtesies?” he said and paused in his reading to write something down, circling it.  “You’d still be in Braavos if I was not impulsive.”

“I thank you for that, Oberyn. Truly,” Sansa said. She would still be making gowns in Braavos but not for his help. “I forgot my courtesies?” Sansa said with an exaggerated gasp. And hoped she morphed her expression to one of blame. “You're a bad influence, Oberyn Martell.”

The prince winked at her with a wicked smirk. “And proud of it, for I have corrupted one fine lady.”

Sansa blinked and became serious. For as long as she could remember, she hadn't behaved in such a casual manner. She brought forth the manners and nuances that had made her the Lady of Winterfell.

The accuracy of Oberyn's comment left a wave of disbelief about her behaviour. She has a duty to both of her families and Westeros, so stored the memory of this moment in her mind to refocus on what was important.

She needed allies. Yet allies could be fickle, like House Tyrell’s lacklustre loyalty; she needed friends.

Reining in the humour from their conversation, Sansa stayed factual with her next words. “This has to be the only time I’ve seen you sit still aside from eating.”

“A project, if you will, Sansa.”

Sansa embraced the lady’s mannerisms she'd been taught in her girlhood and walked to the window. Below was the running water of the Red Fork. Her reflection had a serene face while inside Sansa's mind spun with questions on her next move in the game. _Where do I intervene? What should be left to occur? Lyanna? Jon? The Lannisters? Targaryens?_ She speculated clasping her hands tight.

Cersei’s obsession for power would make the younger Cersei the Mad King reborn. That was inevitable. Stopping the wench from destroying Westeros' chance of survival against their foes was not up for debate; it was Sansa’s duty. Doing nothing would doom her home, friends and family.

House Tully almost had the right of it; Family, Duty, Honour. All three were important factors of life, however, Sansa viewed the words in a different manner where none resided above the others, for without any honour you were untrusted, without fulfilling duty there would be vulnerability to what mattered, and without family, there would be no home and people you love and rely on.

No matter what Cersei had to be stopped. Inside, Sansa grew sick from this line of thought. She was not the gods to play with the lives of people like a cyvasse piece. That behaviour belonged to Littlefinger, who served one person alone. To do nothing with the knowledge from her previous life was a waste and she had to do something. Honourable when possible, but if there was no other choice she must act.

To refuse a deed because it turned her stomach could be selfish if it would cause innocent people to die. 

She drew a line of what she would do because unlike Littlefinger she did have qualms. To dream of a perfect life was the notion of a stupid little girl, and she’d been through enough to have learnt the ‘perfect life’ didn’t exist. In time, hard and undesirable choices will have to be made; when to act or stand aside.

In her reflection, was an untroubled young Sansa when she spotted Catelyn pass through the doorway.

“Sansa,” Catelyn addressed her, disturbing the silence.

Turning she met Catelyn’s eye. “Yes, Catelyn?”

From the other side of the room was a stifled intake of breath. Sansa met Oberyn’s eyes whose flickered between Sansa and Catelyn. His stare lightened by a margin when he stopped and turned to Sansa. Full attention was on her for there was nothing in Oberyn’s hands, the quill put aside. “You’re a year younger, Lady Sansa, but how can you be so alike if not twins?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was born like this, Prince Oberyn.” She mustn’t tell him, and after all his help she hated lying to him.

Sansa caught Catelyn staring when she turned her attention to her older sister, who broke her gaze upon noticing Sansa looking back. As though nothing had happened, Catelyn straightened up and became a proper lady; the manners Sansa had been taught as a child. “I’d like to have a word,” Catelyn said, her face hard. She'd raised Sansa and now looked at her as though she was filth. Sansa suppressed her Winterfell memories.

“Of course,” she said with a nod. When Catelyn turned to leave, Sansa followed.

The walk was quiet since Sansa didn't desire to be at odds with another Tully. Already, Uncle Brynden, the Blackfish, was clear about not wanting her here. The silence in the halls was reminiscent of another time in another castle during girlhood; one of many moments she regretted, for Jon never deserved it.

The demeanour of Catelyn was unwelcoming in her new home. To think Jon had to endure this from Catelyn, but Sansa as well, in Winterfell. It sent a wave of shame through the time traveller for what she'd done to him.

It was cruelty of its own. Worse than Cersei’s venom-filled words and veiled insults; at least she’d known what the woman thought during King’s Landing. Here and now, Sansa had no idea except for what she presumed about Catelyn. The wordless cold shoulder, in time, would torment Sansa in a different way as she interpreted their interactions; including the chance of being wrong and always wondering if she was.

Inside a bedchamber with no items, except Sansa’s plain grey mummer’s gown, Catelyn closed the door and came to the centre. “Don’t think for a second I believe that story,” Catelyn said. “I’ve never heard of you before.  _My_ mother and father never talked about you. Only bastards are hidden from a castle.”

Sansa remained on her feet; to sit down was akin to surrender or admitting defeat. “Consider something; not telling you about me would let you live happily whether I grew healthy or died.”

“If that’s right then why didn’t you come in a wheelhouse?” Catelyn asked.

Stubbornness was shining through Catelyn, but Sansa ignored it. “Banners are flown on a wheelhouse. Don’t you think Mother and Father would want everything arranged before another house knew about me?”

“ _My_ -,”

There was a knock on the door and Sansa opened it which revealed Mother. “Sansa, would you join me for a walk?”

“Of course, Mother,” Sansa said and took the chance to avoid a fight. “Is Edmure asleep again?”

Mother smiled and wrapped a gentle arm around Sansa’s back. The walk was peaceful through the halls and a light squeeze on her shoulder. “Catelyn will be difficult, Sansa, so just give her time to adjust,” Mother said, and turned them towards a door towards the middle of Riverrun. “The guards said you were having a lot of fun astride Prince Oberyn’s horse. The dresses you brought with you made it clear how you could. Were you a rider before?”

Ahead of them was a man holding the reins of a grey horse. “No,” Sansa said. “I scarcely rode. It was a wheelhouse more than not.”

“Here, sit with me, Sansa,” Mother said next to a stone bench. She sat down next to her. “Do you believe you would enjoy riding a horse again?”

There were two stables built side by side, one was taken better care of. “With practise,” Sansa admitted. “There was something…freeing about that ride, but I’ve never felt like that before.”

Mother smiled and held Sansa’s hand within her own. “You’re always solemn or wistful, Sansa, and I get the feeling things didn’t go well for you.”

“No,” Sansa whispered.

She sighed and squeezed Sansa’s hand. “Well, since you like riding a horse but didn’t ride last time,” she said. “How about, as my daughter, you do this time?”

“Mother?” Sansa asked.

“Something new for a new life. Something to make you happy,” Mother said, an index stroked Sansa’s cheek. “I want that for you.”

Sansa swallowed and her lips curved. “I’d like that very much.”

Mother cleared her throat. “Henric,” she said to the man nearby but turned to Sansa. “This horse is mine, but with a babe in my belly and Edmure to look after I can’t ride her.”

“Are you…?” Sansa asked, but faltered with the question.

She nodded. “When you wish, go for a ride on Grey Grace. If you like riding her, Sansa, she is yours.” Sansa didn’t dare look away from her, who tucked a lock behind Sansa’s ear. “Humble,” Mother commented. “I mean it, Sansa Tully. If you like her, she is yours,” she said, stood and brought Sansa to her feet by the hand. “Would you like to meet her?”

“I would,” she said and kept her eyes on Mother’s. “This is very generous of you.”

Mother lifted Sansa’s hand to the horse’s lowered nose. “This here is Henric, Riverrun’s master of horse,” Mother said, with a gesture to the man holding the reins. “Henric, my daughter and second eldest, Sansa Tully. She’s returned from Harrenhal now that she’s hale and healthy.”

Henric nodded to both of them. “A pleasure Lady Tully. And Lady Sansa, a pleasure to meet you. You look so like your mother but Tully colours.”

She smiled and curtsied. “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too, Henric.”

A soft hand fiddled with Sansa’s loose hair. “Any time you wish Henric to ready Grey Grace for you. Let us both know. I’d like to watch you learn, Sansa. See a pure smile as you ride,” Mother said. “Grey Grace is a gentle horse and I doubt you’ll have a bad experience with her.”

Sansa turned and smiled. “Thank you for this, Mother.”

Mother smiled with a hand on Sansa’s back. “Of course, I thought you might like the idea.”

“Lady Tully,” Henric said. “Did you want her prepared for your daughter to ride?”

“Not today, Henric.” Mother looked at Sansa. “Tomorrow mayhaps?” she asked. Sansa nodded. “Tomorrow, Henric.”

“As you wish, Lady Tully.”

They turned away and Sansa followed Mother in her walk of the yard. “Thank you for thinking about me like that.”

Mother thumbed Sansa’s knuckles. “You’re my family.”

A shadow was cast upon them in the yard and Sansa looked up.

“Lady Minisa Tully,” Oberyn said respectfully to Mother with a nod and turned to Sansa. “Lady Sansa _Tully_.” Sansa curtsied, as was her station. He must have deduced the outcome from her proximity to Mother. “Lady Tully,” Oberyn said. “Your daughter was a fine travelling companion,” he told Mother and his eyes fell onto Sansa. “But our journey has come to an end.”   

Sansa was no lackwit; Oberyn was leaving. “My Prince, I am deeply indebted to you for your generous assistance,” she said. The first rock she’d had in this life was leaving; Sansa would be floating in a sea of strangers once again had it not been for Mother. “Should our paths cross again, I pray the circumstances are joyous.”

The prince’s smile was small this time. “Yes, my lady, and so do I. Remember what I taught you and we shall see each other again, for I’m riding west.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I will, My Prince.” Sansa swallowed thickly. “I swear I will.” She kept her composure strong, but like Arya once said, there was no doubt her eyes told Oberyn everything she hadn’t said. “Thank you for bringing me home.”  

Mother’s hand ran down Sansa’s back once Oberyn had left for the stables. Clearly, the woman wasn’t oblivious to the turbulence within her newfound daughter. “Shall we go to the drawbridge and say a final farewell?” Mother suggested in a tone of sympathy and understanding.

Sansa agreed. She’d come to see a friend in Prince Oberyn; her only friend.

They waited by the western bridge for Oberyn to approach with his horse and restocked saddlebags. The drawbridge of choice struck Sansa as strange since his ship was to the east, but the man was unpredictable.

He was on foot when he reached the gate and turned to Sansa. “Farewell, Braavosi Trout,” Oberyn said quirking a smirk at her, giving her a bow and lifting her hand to his lips. “I am no Lannister. There is no debt between friends.”

Sansa gave a tight smile. “Farewell, Oberyn.”

Mounting the black horse with its fire-red mane, Oberyn nodded to the Lady of Riverrun and Sansa, leaving Sansa’s new home soon after.

From the battlements of Riverrun standing beside her Mother, Sansa watched Oberyn’s sand steed faded into the distance. A raven flew overhead in the direction of the departed man.


	5. Cracks in Casterly Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expanded and revised 21 April 19

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 20, 10 th Moon, 275 AC_

In the yard with Ser Dameon for his swordsmanship lesson, Jaime sparred against the master-at-arms but not at his best.

Cersei was excited about a betrothal to Prince Rhaegar, and at the breaking of fast prattled on to Aunt Genna. She wanted to stun the prince so he would know she was the right queen for him. Rhaegar this, Rhaegar that. Jaime sighed and ducked under a sword that came from the corner of his eye.

It was all about Prince Rhaegar bloody Targaryen now, and nothing about Jaime. His sister used to talk all the time about her and Jaime being one soul in two bodies and belonging together. Always being together no matter what, and coming and leaving the world as one.

The way Cersei talked was always passionate; much like their time together. Since Cersei got the news of a betrothal to the crown prince there wasn’t much time together anymore.

There was a blow to his helm and Jaime moaned. His shield could have stopped that, but it was by his side. He should have lifted it.

“That’s the second time this morning. You’ve had enough for today,” Ser Dameon said and took Jaime’s sparring sword and the shield. “We’ll resume tomorrow.”

Sparring and training with Ser Dameon was his favourite thing. Swordsmanship was his best skill, and to be sent away for not concentrating enough made sense, but he hated that it happened. His ears rang from Ser Dameon’s sword hitting his helm, and he could have continued had he paid attention after the first time.

Ascending Casterly Rock to his bedchamber, Jaime loosened his armour along the way and left it outside his door. The bedchamber had a steamy tub waiting for him and he didn’t tarry getting bare so he could relax in it. Soothing heat covered his skin and Jaime rested his head on the rim. His mind drifted while the warmth sunk deeper into him. He closed his eyes and breathed.

There was a creak of hinges, a quiet thunk in his bedchamber. Jaime didn’t bother opening his eyes. One person liked to sneak into his bedchamber and join him when he bathed. A soft thud of fabric falling on the floor, a slosh of someone getting in. Jaime inhaled when soft hands roamed his body. Warm breath and pleasant pressure to his neck made him stir.

“Open your eyes,” the voice of Cersei said near his ear. “Show me the eyes we share. They mean we belong together and always.” Arms embraced him. “That our love is what it’s meant to be.”

Jaime kept his eye closed and grimaced. “Then why do you want to be queen? What happens to us, Cersei?” he asked.

“In King’s Landing, you will always be with me. Always.”

He pulled away and opened his eyes. It would show him if Cersei believed what she spoke. “How? I don’t want to be Warden of the West, but Father always gets what he wants. And you’re excited about the other side of Westeros?”

Cersei stood naked as her nameday and shook her head like he was a fool. “Queens get what they want,” she said and came to him. “And I want you with me. My love for you never changed.” When she kissed him, he nearly did back. “ I want you, Jaime.”

Jaime bit his lip and turned his head away. “No. You want me to do something for you again.” With a sigh, he met her eyes. “When you join me, you always want something.”

“I want you,” she murmured in his ear. “My brother and my lover,” she whispered. Arms around him, she pulled Jaime to her and kissed. Hands guided him to lean down and she deepened it. “I love my lover.”

His hand lifted towards her hair, but he closed it to a fist and lowered it. For a moment he’d wanted that to be true and kiss her back, but that old letter made him doubt her. When they’d talked about Tyrion being innocent or guilty, Cersei had done what he liked; this time she said what he liked to hear. He hid his face by kissing her neck. “Whatever you want, Cersei, I’ll do it,” he said.

Hands stroked his back and deeper breathing was near his ear. “You would?”

“I would,” Jaime said against her neck.

“The contract in Father’s solar. Steal it for me so I can read it. The marriage contract.”

Inside him, something burned and he stroked her hair once. “Next time I have a lesson with Father,” he said.

As normal, using his shoulders, Cersei pulled herself up against him. It made him inhale and Jaime didn’t try hiding that, it’s what she would want to hear. She kissed him long and hard while he waited for it to be over, but he had to kiss back for it to work. When she was done he breathed as though to catch his breath.

“Thank you, Jaime,” Cersei said while he dressed. He was thankful when she was gone.

On his bed, Jaime sat against a post with his feet on the quilt. Picking at his breeches with a frown, he shook his head. Like the talk about Tyrion, Cersei had done what she thought worked to get what she wanted. This time she wanted the marriage contract about her and Rhaegar Targaryen.

She’d told Jaime she loved him, that she wanted him and that they belonged together. If all she said was true about him and Cersei, and not Rhaegar Targaryen, then she had a poor way to prove it.

Over to his boots, Jaime shoved them on and marched away from his bedchamber for his lesson with Maester Gawen. “Go to the Seven Hells and get it yourself,” he muttered.

Inside the maester’s chamber for his lesson on the history of the Westerlands, he took a seat and scratched at the desk’s wood. The ravens in the rookery nearby were louder than normal. A letter from some other house mayhaps arrived, because Maester Gawen never fed the ravens before a lesson. It made them noisy.

Footsteps neared him and he turned his head. Carrying a sealed letter with red wax but no sigil was Maester Gawen, who held it out to him. Beside the wax was his name. “This came for you a minute ago, Jaime,” Maester Gawen said kindly. “Are you well?”

Jaime met his eyes and nodded. “I’m fine,” he said plainly. He wasn’t in the mood for details and neither did he want his father to know what they did together. That time when Mother found years ago, she forbade them from being close like that again. Not that they listened.

“Ahhh,” the maester said. “I used to fight with my brother. I’ll prepare for your lesson while you read your letter, Jaime.”

He broke the seal and unrolled it. The words were written in the same plain font as the previous nameless letter.

 

_Jaime Lannister,_

_The world, including your father, will be cruel to Tyrion because of the circumstance of his nameday and his disfigurement._

_Tywin Lannister cares little for Tyrion. Cersei hates him and mayhaps injure him one day. He needs a brother that cares. Can you be that brother?_

_Spend time with him when no one will? Make sure he doesn’t get hurt? Teach him his letters, because Tywin and Cersei likely won’t?_

_He will not forget a kind deed and will love you for it. Help him. Protect him._

_Protect him from Cersei._

_Will you be the brother Tyrion needs? I know you can be._

\-- 

 

The content of the letter unnerved Jaime for none of it was wrong. With a look over his shoulder, there was Maester Gawen at the bookshelf who’d said the letter had just come. Inside the rookery were two cages. One for Casterly Rock’s ravens and one for arriving ravens, if there was only one raven in the second cage he could sneak a reply. If he needed help from Maester Gawen for the right raven, Jaime would make something up.

The lack of a name at the bottom left a mystery, so Jaime took his chance to write a reply he could send one to this person. Quill in hand and parchment on the desk, Jaime was quick in case another raven was flying to Casterly Rock right now. One raven in the second cage would be easier than two.

_Who are you?_

_Of course, I’d protect Tyrion. He’s my brother._

_And…you’re not wrong about Cersei._

_-Jaime._

 

His reply had drops of ink on the parchment, but that didn’t matter and he used the powder shaker to dry the ink. With the powder blown off as Father did with all of his letters, Jaime dashed into the rookery.

In the second cage was one raven. Gentle with the tired bird, Jaime tied the letter onto its leg and carried the bird to the opening. “There you go. Fly home,” he said although the bird wouldn’t understand him.

The steps of Maester Gawen approached. “Who was that to, Jaime?”

“Someone interesting,” he said and scratched his head. Getting caught hadn’t been part of the plan.

Maester Gawen smiled with an amused look. “Let’s begin our lesson, young lord.”

 

_Day 31, 10 th Moon, 275 AC_

Three days ago he got a reply, which meant they lived nearby. The Westerlands, the Reach, the Riverlands. Mayhaps the Iron Islands but unlikely, since krakens ravaged and plundered; not care about something they gained no benefit from. 

_Jaime,_

_I hear there’s to be a tourney at Lannisport if Rhaella Targaryen’s child survives. Hopefully, my family will attend and we can meet._

_Can you imagine what could happen if I gave my name to House Lannister? It could endanger my family, for Lord Tywin would mayhaps see a threat where there is none._

_I won’t risk what Tywin did to his enemies; Tarbeck and Reyne. Those houses are extinct. My house won’t be added to that list._

_Until the tourney, Jaime._

 

He’d burnt the letter that same day for good measure since the girl was so worried about her family. Jaime was at a loss why this person, he’d assumed it was a girl by the writer’s words, would bother with all she had done. The only people to benefit from doing it were him and Tyrion.

And this girl claimed she could risk her family just with her name. She’d said Father would see a threat in the letters, but Jaime hadn’t seen anything bad about them. There was no suggestion of betraying houses or treason against King Aerys II.

Although the letters made him sad when it turned out the information and questions were true, he was glad she’d sent them; whoever she was. The first one opened his eyes to what Cersei was doing; manipulating him by using his want of someone loving him. Mother was the one who’d loved him while Father was always busy and cold. Mother died bringing Tyrion into the world, and Father hated Jaime’s babe brother for it.

The second letter told him things he would have done anyway. Father and Cersei hated Tyrion, which left Jaime, Aunt Genna and Uncle Kev to look after Tyrion. Uncle Tyg and Uncle Gery were at Casterly Rock once in a while and they liked Tyrion too.

This girl seemed interested in helping him and Tyrion, but should the queen have another dead babe there would be no tourney. Meaning no meeting this secret girl; he wanted to meet her.

Jaime entered the Lord’s solar for his lesson with his father. He’d already had another lesson with Father since Cersei said she wanted the contract, but she could steal it if she really wanted it. She was mad at him at the moment.

“Father,” he said and took a seat at the side of the desk. There was no greeting from his father, but the man finished a letter and rearranged the desk, including a map of the southron half of Westeros. “This isn’t the normal map,” Jaime said and looked to Father.

“It is not,” Father replied and used the feathery end of a quill to point. “Trading techniques; negotiations, speed, and price. The Westerlands will be finding a new supplier for food soon. Currently, we purchase from the Reach, but Lady Olenna Tyrell demands too much gold for the quantity we require. She will not exploit our wealth.”

Jaime rubbed his chin and searched the map for kingdoms with good land for food. “But that leaves the Riverlands and the Vale.”

“Indeed,” Father said. “Tell me, since Highgarden, much like the Vale, is a longer journey than Riverrun, what is appropriate to broker an agreement with Lord Tully? Ravens or in person?”

There was a short distance between Casterly Rock and Riverrun. With a wheelhouse, it might take three sennights to get there, unless horses were changed to keep them strong and fresh. “In person,” Jaime said. “They’re close and our house could get a better price.”

“Correct. Using ravens tells a supplier you’re not serious. The food would cost more without in-person negotiations,” Father commented. It was almost praise. “You were much quicker than Cersei in grasping the import of such trade conduct. You and Cersei, with your aunt and uncle, will depart for Riverrun in a moon.”

Jaime gave a nod but faltered. “Will Tyrion be coming, Father?”

His father grimaced but turned to Jaime. “I have other affairs in the Westerlands. He will go with you.”

To keep a smile off his face was a challenge. In Riverrun and on the way there, everyone would be in wheelhouses, including Aunt Genna. She would keep Tyrion safer from Cersei than Jaime could in Casterly Rock. Casterly Rock was too big to watch Tyrion all the time.

“We will host a tourney in a few moons, Jaime,” Father said, which sparked Jaime’s interest. “Go and find an area outside Lannisport for appropriate tourney grounds. One large enough for the Great Houses and their bannermen. You will tell me the location when you have.”

“I will,” Jaime said, an urge rising within him to do it now. Doing it meant he could go for a ride.

“Go.”

He walked like a lord until outside the Lord’s solar; in the halls, Jaime took off at a run for the stables. To ride horseback was a favourite aside from sword fighting; his heart would race and life rose within him every time. It was him and his horse with land flying beneath feet and hooves. The wind, the rush; he smiled.

With no waste of time, Jaime helped prepare the courser, a horse shorter than destriers but faster. It was one of the best types of horses a knight could have and he wanted to be a knight one day. A true knight was a good man and he wanted to be one just like Ser Arthur. Jaime prayed Ser Arthur was coming to the tourney so he could meet him. It was rare that Jaime prayed for anything.

Boosted up into the saddle by Ser Dameon, Jaime nodded to him and rode out through the Lion’s Mouth; the singular and grand entrance into Casterly Rock; twenty riders wide. Ahead was Lannisport, less than a mile away. His cousins lived there in a castle made of stone and mortar instead of solid rock three times taller than the Wall.

A quarter mile away from Lannisport was a light-breezed area large enough for the tourney grounds Father wanted. Room for wheelhouses and plenty for stands to fit hundreds, mayhaps thousands, of people.

He’d come here alone and took a look around to make sure he still was. Satisfied, Jaime imagined a jousting tourney on the land in front of him and got into the jousting position; sword in hand as though it was a lance. Spurring his horse, pictures of what he could one day compete in were before his eyes until he slowed the horse to a walk.

Father mayhaps said Jaime was too young to be a jouster, but that didn’t keep him from the dream. One day he would compete in his first tourney, determined to win; to prove himself skilled to both Father and his family. To prove to himself he could be a good fighter.

If the gods were good, he would get to see his favourite knight in the tourney and mayhaps meet him. Ser Arthur was a true knight and people said he was a brilliant swordsman. He couldn’t wait for it to happen. Jaime rubbed the neck of his horse.

“Woo!” a man cheered. Jaime turned in his saddle and grinned. Uncle Gerion, but he called him ‘Uncle Gery’, was on a horse and approached until they were side by side. “You were made for the saddle, Jaime.” 

“Thank you, Uncle Gery. I didn’t know you were coming home,” Jaime said. A wave of black and red rushed past them towards Lannisport, which prompted his turn in the saddle to get a better look.

“They’re gone, Jaime, but I do know one thing. That was a sand steed; a mount prominent in Dorne. You don’t get a red mane and tail like that anywhere else,” Uncle Gery said, smiling and taking off his Lannister crimson doublet to put it in a saddlebag. “And your father hates Dornish folk. Give me your doublet and we can find out what this fellow is doing. If good ol’ Tywin is in Lannisport I’ll say I dragged you there.”

“But you’re not,” Jaime said. “I’m done here, and I suppose I’m curious now.”

Uncle Gery bumped Jaime’s shoulder with his. “Our secret then,” Uncle Gery said and got his horse to walk. “Done here? What were you doing, Jaime?”

“Father told me to find a good place for big tourney grounds and tell him,” he said and matched his horse to Uncle Gery’s cantering. “It’s a tourney for King Aerys if the Targaryens get a new prince or princess.”

His uncle nodded. “That’s why I came home. There’s no better place to train for a tourney, but where the tourney is going to be.”

Jaime perked up in the saddle while their horses walked within the streets of Lannisport. “Do you know if Uncle Tyg is coming?” he asked, but in the yard of the Lannisport castle, Uncle Gery shrugged.

Dismounted and the reins handed over to a stableboy, Uncle Gery took a coin purse from a saddlebag and approached Jaime with a glint in his eyes. “I’d wager if your father is in Lannisport, he’d be glaring daggers at the Dornishman.”

He turned to his uncle and shook his head. “Why would Father hate them?” he asked and followed his uncle.

“Another time, Jaime. I want to have fun with my nephew,” Uncle Gery said and strolled through the gatehouse of the castle belonging to the Lannisport Lannisters. “Let’s find that sand steed.”

The markets were a small walk away, and Jaime wanted to have a look at the weapons there. “Uncle Gery? Can we go to the markets? I want to have a look-,” Jaime said, but his uncle spoke as well.

“-at the weaponry section,” Uncle Gery said with Jaime and patted his shoulder. “I should have known. Let’s go then, future knight.”

The markets of Lannisport were crowded and loud. Merchants shouted prices and what was for sale, while customers at the stalls tried to suggest a price over the din. Jaime grinned and grabbed his uncle’s hand to pull his towards the weaponry section.

Sometimes it was quality steel, sometimes exotic and strange to Jaime, but the sword was where he excelled and always wanted to know what new inventions and designs were available. What he could be fighting against in the future too.

There was a way to go yet because at the moment they weaved through the Westerosi and foreign herb and medicine section. However, Jaime hid his face and made for the shade to stay out of sight, Uncle Gery right behind him.

Ahead and tall among the customers was his father in an unpleasant conversation with a stiff expression. Father was always serious in Casterly Rock and only had a face like a stone if he was angry or annoyed.

Still quiet among the hustle of the port markets, he ventured closer to see who was speaking to Father. “Stay here, Uncle Gery,” he whispered. A chuckle was the only reply. There was an itch to know what angered his father, so Jaime crept until he had to hide under a table to stay out of sight but close to Father.

Father faced the stall but the person he spoke to was closest to Jaime. He didn’t dare peek out or Father would catch him.

“-at Lannisport for business of no concern to you, Lord Tywin,” said a thick voice that seemed vaguely familiar. “Lion of Lannister questioning me in front of the merchants,” the man said to Father, tone fearless. “Unwise after the increased tax you charged them for a time, I hear,” he taunted Father.

Salty Dornishmen had accents like this man; Father had had the maester teach him how to recognise the people of the other kingdoms, claiming it was important. It was proving useful now, but Jaime would never give Father that satisfaction by saying so.

Father was clearly displeased at the reminder of what he’d told Jaime was never his decision, but King Aerys’. During that lesson, Jaime hadn’t been overly interested since he couldn’t honestly imagine himself ruling the Westerlands and being happy about it. He cared for people, not the power he could have over them. As a consequence of his thoughts, Jaime had missed Father’s reply and needed to guess based on the stranger's answer. 

“My business is not with you, Tywin Lannister,” the Dornishman dismissed. “Would I not be at Casterly Rock if it was?”

Father would be furious; the anger hidden behind a calm face. Jaime remained hidden under the table. “What do you want, Martell?” Father said in a low volume Jaime almost missed. There must be a grudge or something between them.

The member of House Martell scoffed. “I am here on business. Good day, Lord Tywin.” Pieces of metal landed on the wood above Jaime’s head and the Dornishman left with his back to Father the whole time. To have the gall to deny Father what he wanted would be brilliant, but there’d be consequences if Jaime denied his father.

Jaime stayed under the table and waited until Father was gone. No one walked away from Father without giving Lord Lannister what he wanted. Anything always went the way Father wanted because everyone feared him; but not that Martell.

With both of them gone he could have chosen to walk, but Jaime slipped away through shadows and under tables.

A hand grabbed him. “Got you, Nephew.”

Jaime sighed, the race of his heart slowed. “Don’t _do_ that. Gods, Uncle.”

Uncle Gery sniggered and pulled him away from the markets. “This way. He left the precinct for the taverns. Let’s find him. He pissed off your father, so he’s in my good books.”

He cooperated and jogged to keep up with his uncle. “Father called him ‘Martell’. They didn’t like each other much,” he said and his uncle raised an eyebrow.

“Did he now?” Uncle Gery said with a grin. “Oh, there he goes. I am not missing this.”

“Father or the Dornishman?”

His uncle laughed. “Do you think I want to see your father in a mood? Who am I jesting? He’s always in a bloody mood. The Dornishman, Jaime.” They entered a tavern full of people with a spare table or two. “Get the one the fellow has his back to.”

With swift strides, Jaime kept his head down, claimed a seat and swung his feet up onto the other. He had an eye on the people until his uncle was in sight with two tankards. Uncle Gery put one in front of Jaime.

“Uncle, are you mad? Father would have my hide,” Jaime said and lowered his feet.

His uncle grinned and shook his head. “Getting you drunk is not the plan, Jaime. It’s diluted ale. Mine’s wine,” Uncle Gery said and took a gulp of his own. “Keep your hands on your own and you’ll be fine. So…I snuck a look at his face, and it’s Oberyn Martell.”

Jaime blinked. The Salty Dornishman was the one Princess Mariah Martell wanted Cersei betrothed to years ago; Father rejected it. “What is he doing here?”

Uncle Gery shrugged. “Which road was he on when he passed? I didn’t see.”

“River Road. He was north of us, not south.”

“Shh, I want to listen.”

Two tables in front of them were Oberyn Martell talking to a minstrel who spoke too quiet for Jaime to hear. He glanced at his uncle.

“They’re talking of a song about a Tully girl,” his uncle said. “What are the names of Hoster Tully’s daughters and how old? I normally ignore those details.”

Jaime nodded and took a sip of the ale. It was weak. “Catelyn and Lysa. One my age and Catelyn is two years older,” he whispered so no one would hear. “Why?”

“Well, it sounds like another one jumped out of the river then,” Uncle Gery said and tilted his head towards the two men. Prince Oberyn handed the minstrel a Gold Dragon. “More than he makes in a day. Well, we’re here. Might as well listen.”

 

“A trout of ten,

Swam home again,

And people talked of her since then.”

 

“They say that she is beauty.

They say that she is grace.

Don’t say it near a lion’s face.”

 

“Knock on the lion’s door,

You’ll hear her roar,

The Westeros beauty she is no more.

 

“Sansa cares for the people.

She’s kind and never shouts.

But look out,

A lion‘s about.

Cersei oh hates the Tully trout.”

 

“Entranced by Sansa’s beauty.

Entranced by Sansa’s grace.

You’ll want to steal a kiss,

And not miss.

To Riverrun, you best be swift.”

 

“Cersei will oh hate her,

But so much more oh later.

When Sansa blooms,

The men will swoon,

And want to be a lucky groom.”

 

Within the tavern, coppers were tossed into a hat and the Dornish Prince took a draught, clapping. A hand rested on Jaime’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. Attention on Uncle Gery, who lowered his hand to the table, Jaime met his eyes.

“I didn’t know your sister was going to be mocked, Jaime. I’m sorry,” Uncle Gery apologised. “Did you want to leave?”

Jaime shrugged and took a slow drink. “Let’s go,” he said.


	6. Turbulent Waters

SANSA STARK

_Day 16, 11 th moon, 275 AC_

It had been a moon since Oberyn’s departure, and the following morning Sansa’s ceremony of the seven oils at dawn in the sept. However, it seemed as though far more than a moon had gone by.

Mayhaps Mother felt the same after spending so much time abed.

Entering the bedchambers of Riverrun’s lady, Sansa carried a tray of honeyed porridge with fruit and a cup of tea. “Good morrow, Mother,” Sansa quietly said, taking the seat beside Minisa's bed. Putting the meal on a side table, Sansa assisted her to sit against the pillows. “I hope you’re feeling well.”

Minisa looked to Sansa wryly. “The babe was kicking all night,” she complained, giving a tired smile and accepted the tray. “Thank you, sweetling. Your father appreciates you doing this every morning, you realise that?”

Sansa's lips parted and she blinked. “I honestly haven’t, Mother,” the daughter admitted; she didn't know what Hoster Tully thought about her. “Father and I don’t speak often. Usually, it’s about the duties I’m helping Catelyn with.”

Mother reached up and cupped her cheek. “You still believe he only accepts you for the sake of House Tully’s reputation, don’t you, my daughter?” Her face warmed and Sansa looked to Mother, but dropped her gaze to the floor. “Sansa,” Mother said firmly, and with a gentle hand lifted Sansa's chin. “I mayhaps be the most expressive, unlike your father, but it doesn’t mean I am the only one who cares.”

Sansa shook her head. “That is kind of you to say, but why would he accept me as family instead of a ward carrying his name?” Catelyn and Lysa didn't like her for different reasons, and Edmure was too young to suspect anything was odd about Sansa.

Mother took her hand and gave a gentle squeeze.

“In the beginning, Sansa, it was as a ward. I won’t deny it,” Mother uttered, thumbing Sansa's hand. “But after all you have done here for this family, and especially me when I’m too ailed or sick to rise in the morning; don’t you think he’d come to care for you more than a ward?”

Sansa hesitated a moment too long.

Minisa covered her hand with both of her own. “Despite your sisters’ behaviour -yes, I hear Lysa sometimes -  that doesn’t mean your father is blind to all you do here.” Sansa glanced away for a moment before meeting Mother’s eyes once more. “He mayhaps not utter ‘daughter’ the way I do, but he is coming to see you as a true one," she said with a true smile. "Believe that.”

Despite the detachment she had attempted to uphold since the ceremony of the seven oils, Minisa’s acceptance and kind heart was softening the steel that was her shell against the world. Swallowing, Sansa glanced down at their hands and resisted an urge to worry at her bottom lip. “Your porridge will get cold soon, Mother.”

She chuckled at Sansa’s attempted redirection. “Come here, sweetling,” her mother said, reaching for her cheek. “You are a daughter to me. You are a trusted member of this household to my husband -your father. And in time, your sisters won’t be so cold.” Mother kissed her lightly. “Go on, Sansa. I know you have a busy day ahead of you. I’ve heard Edmure has grown fond of you this past moon.”

“Thank you, Mother,” was all she managed, rising to leave the bedchamber and discreetly wiped her eye. “Rest well.”

“I’ll try, sweetling.”

Leaving the room, Sansa took a breath and embraced the mask of the Lady of Winterfell. In the company of Mother, and Mother alone was the only time Sansa ever allowed it to fall away and show her true self.

For the past moon, she had seen how much of a challenge being with child was on Minisa Tully. Sansa helped Mother in any way she could while Mother endured the illnesses that the babe was making her more prone to befall.

Closing the door to Mother’s bedchamber, Sansa entered the connected Lady's solar and Catelyn was going through one of the ledgers on the desk. “How’s _my_ mother, bastard?” Catelyn asked without looking up while she wrote; a mimic of the one time Sansa had seen Tywin Lannister at a desk. Sansa smothered a shudder.

“Our mother is quite tired,” Sansa said with a calm tone. “The babe kept her awake last night.”

She took a seat on the other side and pulled the inventory ledger over and scanned what was in their stores. Taking a quill, for the ledgers were a shared duty, Sansa did as she had done many times in Winterfell. Her quill glided across the page until there was a resource due to be refilled by a delivery. 

Complete, she rose from her seat and looked to Catelyn who ignored her for the most part. “Mother is a mother to me too, Catelyn, despite the circumstances. I pray you can look past that one day.” Before her was a parallel she'd been on the giving end of once.

Catelyn didn’t bother to glance in Sansa’s direction, pausing for only a moment with her quill and continued with the coin ledger; a minute scowl on her face. Disappointed with her sister, Sansa left the room and made for the nursery where Edmure was likely waiting for her. It had become routine that Sansa took care of the Tully heir; it also had the added benefit of keeping a certain someone away from her most part.

The young lord must have known she was coming because standing against the railing of the cot, Edmure was looking at her with bright eyes and a grin. “Sa’sa! Sa’sa. Sa’sa.”

It was too adorable and Sansa laughed when she picked him up, her hair in a single braid over her right shoulder where he couldn’t pull it easily; she’d learnt her lesson concerning Edmure and his hands. “Hello, Edmure. You’ll have a sibling soon, I expect. What do you want to do today?” Sansa asked him, playing with the curly auburn locks that, combined with his energy, was alike to Rickon. He, too, had been a toddler when she was a child. “Hmm, I don’t think you’ve broken your fast yet.”

“You’ve done much here.” Inside herself a bubble burst, but she suppressed it for she knew who it was. Emerging from beside the bookcase was Uncle Brynden. The Blackfish. “How did you learn to manage a household?”

“Lord Uncle,” Sansa acknowledged with a brief curtsey.

Mother was ‘tutoring’ her on the duties of a great lady on Mother's best days, and it was no secret from the rest of the Tullys. During those lessons, Sansa concealed her experience and deliberately pretended not to know the finer requirements immediately, but didn’t hold back for too long. The smiles from Mother as she 'learned' them often made her smile back, and within her heart created a rare growing warmth that failed to fade.

“The place where I worked in Braavos," Sansa said politely. "The difference is what kind and quantity of inventory we need a perpetual supply of; Mother taught me the finer points concerning food of larger amounts though,” she explained, without a single lie but one. She had managed supplies in Braavos for seven years, but truly learnt household management in Winterfell at Catelyn Stark’s knee. 

Uncle Brynden did nothing but a small nod and followed her while she took Edmure to the kitchens. This was the longest conversation Sansa had ever had with him because he generally just watched her when their paths crossed. It was the closest he’d said to a ‘thank you’ as well. Although it was only a small amount of success warming him up to her, Sansa counted it as a victory.

Once Edmure had eaten his fill, Sansa took him for a turn in the godswood. Riverrun had no heart tree like the North, but she still enjoyed the quiet and peace of traversing within a godswood once again. She didn’t dare get on her knees or sit on a truck during the walks she did twice a week with Edmure.

As a biweekly tribute to Arya, Sansa always chose her grey mummer’s gown for those days. She never prayed on her knees, instead, she prayed while walking as she held Edmure’s hand; only the Blackfish would find it suspicious if he tried. Arya would never forgive Sansa for doing something as foolish as to pray like a Northerner in the godswood while in a tentative position in the south.

Instead of watching her walk the little boy from afar on the battlements as normal, The Blackfish was beside her today, yet said nothing. Little Edmure was doing quite well with his walking and babbled as she held his hand. Sansa wasn’t looking forward to him learning to run if he was anything like Rickon had been; and so far, he was an energetic babe.

Her walks here were times Sansa reserved to think about her girlhood and family as a Stark. To remember them all, what they loved and looked like, and what had happened to each. Beyond the tree line of the godswood, she was Sansa Tully, daughter of Hoster and Minisa Tully, sister to Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure, niece of Brynden ‘Blackfish’ Tully.

Her first life was for remembering, as much as the concept tore at her insides. Her second life was to live with a new family and save Westeros using everything she’d learnt last time.

Her uncle was the one to break the silence between them once Sansa finished the walk in the godswood. “Why the godswood for his walks?” the man questioned with no aggression.

A ready answer left her lips with ease. “Edmure is indoors most of the time, but I dare not venture outside Riverrun. He’s too young and the only male heir.”

Uncle Brynden nodded. “Well argued,” he said, picking up Edmure and walking off in the direction of the nursery. “Go spend time with your mother, I'll play with my nephew.”

Now without Edmure to attend to, Sansa had a few moments alone and thought about Westeros at large and how to weaken Cersei Lannister’s influence. The Lannister family had become a weakened unit upon the death of Tywin Lannister last time. He was the man who held the house together. Cersei’s power derived from control over her brother and the title of Queen in some respect. Regent or Queen herself.

From her first opportunity in Gulltown, Sansa began her endeavour against the future queen with a note to Jaime Lannister with an agenda. To point out how Cersei got him to do what she wanted, as well as rhetorically questioning what would happen to him after Cersei married Prince Rhaegar.

It would take time to see if her efforts had been fruitful against Cersei, she conceded. The wait, hopefully, would be worth the grating within Sansa.

However, if that note about Rhaegar failed, the one about looking after Tyrion will likely bore success; but that letter almost scared the daylights out of her shortly after. Jaime had replied.

She’d never given her name in either letter, yet he managed to send one back after the letter about Tyrion. It brought to mind how Littlefinger and Lord Varys had had a network of spies each. 

_Does Lord Tywin have spies in Riverrun?_

_Have I unwittingly left some kind of clue as to who I am?_

Either way, Sansa didn’t risk another letter after her own response suggesting to meet at the Tourney of Lannisport. In her past life, it was said to have been hosted in celebration of Viserys’ Targaryen birth; where all the Great Houses attended.

So, for now, she was going to have to be the patient wolf and wait until early next year to see what had become of her letters.

The gods must have given her a rare smile, because Maester Kym was absent when Jaime’s unexpected reply arrived; Sansa, at the time, had been sending her father’s missives about ‘Sansa Tully’ to the Great Houses of Westeros and the Citadel. So the communication between Jaime and herself had gone unnoticed in Riverrun.   

Sansa pulled out the hasty-written note he sent three sennights ago, the last one from him. The font was messy and the parchment blotted with ink.

_Who are you?_

_Of course I’d protect Tyrion. He’s my brother._

_And…you’re not wrong about Cersei._

_-Jaime._

 

Sansa prayed none of her letters had fallen into the wrong hands at Casterly Rock. She did not wish for Lord Tywin’s wrath to turn towards the Tullys because of her intervention between Jaime, Cersei, and Lord Tywin.

So she had stopped the letters for now and there hadn’t been additional replies from Casterly Rock. Jaime would likely have written again if he knew where she lived, Sansa concluded.

Although Sansa had reason to believe she was making changes to the future beyond Riverrun, things inside Riverrun were a different matter entirely.

Catelyn was acting as Catelyn Stark had to Jon, but with the inability to call Sansa a bastard near the adults because it was forbidden by Father. Lysa, oddly enough, was the more accepting of the pair, with Petyr being the only conflict between them, who Sansa typically avoided. So the only times they fought was an aftermath of Lysa seeing Petyr paying attention to Sansa, accusing Sansa of playing with his heart.

Going back indoors, Sansa checked on different matters of the household while she walked to her bedchamber to retrieve her sewing basket. Unlike King’s Landing, there was no sewing circle and none of the gossiping included, thankfully. Instead, she went to Mother’s bedchamber, where she had taken to threading her gown fabric together.

She passed through the Lady’s solar, now void of Cat, and quietly entered Mother’s bedchamber. At the end of the bed was a comfortable chair and she sat down.

Mother was finally asleep. The peaceful face drew a smile to Sansa's own at the sight.

Not daring to touch the empty food tray of food she’d brought earlier, Sansa worked on a dress that wasn’t a mummer’s gown. She’d developed a routine of late concerning her clothes, and now she had both dresses and mummer’s gowns in her wardrobe.

When Petyr showed signs of courage a previous night, Sansa would deliberately choose to wear a mummer’s gown the following day. It made it easier to move with easy haste to avoid him during her duties. Otherwise, she wore a dress.

Father had stated in his solar a moon ago when she arrived here that he was not opposed to her mummer’s gowns so long as she didn’t wear the outer skirt on her shoulders like a cloak. Mayhaps not to those exact words, because he didn’t know it could be used that way, but what he’d told her was along the lines of ‘so long as you look like a lady’.

Sometimes Sansa was unlucky and Petyr would approach her on a day she’d thought he’d stay away. Thus leaving her in the predicament of being in one of her limiting dresses instead of a mummer’s gown. It was, in fact, worse when that happened because her real dresses were notably prettier and made Petyr’s attempts for her attention more persistent.

_Petyr is different to Littlefinger in that he isn't as sly as his older self._

But true dress or mummer’s gown, Sansa’s strategy was slowly losing its effect altogether, so she now made all her dresses and gowns with the same level of adornments while she watched over Mother.

With the sunlight shining to Sansa’s side of the room, leaving Mother with darkness and peace, she quietly whittled away her time as she methodically made the seams with the pace she’d garnered in Braavos. So long as she was purposely being quiet, Sansa working on a dress never awoke Mother from sleep.

A murmur came from the bed, and Sansa settled her work down on the chair when she rose to her feet. With light steps she approached, but Mother appeared to still be sleeping.

Returning to her chair and resuming the work, Sansa watched the person who treated her like a true daughter; who'd taken to calling Sansa ‘my daughter’ when Sansa’s doubts came to the forefront.

But itching scepticism made her wonder just what Minisa Tully saw in Sansa aside from a pretty face of Whent blood. Yet, at the same time, she had to admit that the reassurance Mother never failed to give was a warmth she hadn’t had in years.

The love of a mother.

_But was it? Or am I trying to fool myself?_

With the seams of her silver and black dress complete, Sansa slowly rested it on Mother’s vanity chair and stood to glance into the looking glass, watching the child’s face staring back.

It was a flourishing child of almost eleven, her height at that age from last time was clear to see and now made her as tall as Catelyn much to the latter’s displeasure, who’s twelfth nameday was soon.

She was not Sansa Stark of Winterfell in this life, but Sansa Tully of Riverrun.

Cat was not the Catelyn Stark she’d been raised by and loved. She was not her mother here, and never would be in this life. It was difficult to let go, but every morning the same bitter looks and silence from Cat stared Sansa in the face, serving to remind Sansa that the woman who is her mother is Minisa Tully.

Mayhaps the care and affection from Minisa had acted as a smoke cloud to keep Sansa from acknowledging the truth. Although she was seeing her Stark mother in girlhood, that same girl did not hold any love for her. Lady Tully was freely giving Sansa the gentle treatment she had only received from one other woman; a woman who for all intents and purposes was gone and never coming back.

_I was fooling myself in a different way. I’ve been denied this for years. And now I have it from the only woman who can give it, I doubted it. But she's still alive and I will do what I can to help.  
_

Abandoning her needle and thread safely in her sewing basket, Sansa took the stool sitting beside Mother’s bed. Glancing at the tray on the bedside table, Sansa turned her head towards the window and the shadows were no longer skinny. It must be well past the midday meal by now.

Carefully rising from the stool without a sound, Sansa slipped out of the Lady’s bedchambers and adjoined solar and made for the kitchens. She was a short distance away and had no other direction to go discreetly when she spotted Petyr coming the other way. So far, Sansa had never had to turn around and flee like a fugitive, rather she managed to disappear with grace or take a turn as though that was the plan all along.

This was the first time there was no cluster of people for her to quickly make herself a part of. And frankly, Sansa was getting fed up with the necessity of hiding in her own home. Keeping her calm, Sansa pierced him with the steel of a Stark, but the warning in her eyes failed to make him falter and change his mind. Instead, when he reached her, Petyr took her hands and brought them to his lips.

_If I was Arya, he’d have received a broken nose a moon ago._

“Petyr,” Sansa scolded and tried taking her hands from his without having to pull them out. “I have somewhere to be,” she told him with calm.

“So fierce,” he muttered, looking into her eyes with want and a glassy shine. _Was Petyr drunk?_ “The others are nothing like you,” he complimented her.

It almost sounded like the words of Littlefinger when he was older; it made her shiver.

“No,” she told him a little louder than necessary, not that he noticed. The kitchens weren’t that far away. Having been in Harry Hardying's presence had taught her the nuances of a man with lust and Sansa had managed to escape being touched any further than her hands by Petyr.

_Thank the Gods that he wasn’t Littlefinger yet._

Sansa took a step back which straightened both of their arms so he couldn’t kiss her hand again without effort. But her action worked against her, because he simply slid his hands up her elbows.

“Release my arms, Petyr.” Sansa didn’t use threats because they only showed desperation and he would take advantage of that.

His feline grey-green eyes only lit up at her words. “As you wish, Sansa.” He took a step forward and slide his hands to her shoulders.

_Mayhaps this is the beginning of Littlefinger but still learning. The Littlefinger of old wouldn't have done this, he was always friendly to others, not making enemies.  
_

This was no trauma to Sansa, she’d been forced to play the wanton woman in a bedchamber in her past; she didn’t fear him here. “No, Petyr. I’m not interested.”

Instead, she kept her eyes on him while she looked in her periphery for anyone to intervene before she took measures, but he moved before she could refocus on the boy in front of her.

He kissed her sloppily.

She slapped him.

“You whore!” Lysa screamed for all to hear.

Petyr was stumbling back looking dazed with shock. Not once had Sansa used physical aggression; because she never had to until now.

By now there was a crowd in the hallway, hovering near the entrance to the kitchen. She shook her head.

“By the Gods, Baelish!” Sansa snarled at him. “I said ‘No’! It’s been a moon and ‘No’ is the only answer I will ever give you!”

Her hate of the old Littlefinger's manipulations was bubbling under her skin, as she made to step around him but to she was stopped by Lysa. “First Catelyn, and now you with you here! The both of you have played with his feelings because you find it funny. Well, I care!”  

_Gods be good, this cannot be happening again._

Memories of the death threats from her own blood in the Eyrie flashed before her eyes, but Sansa snapped out of it and looked to Lysa seriously. “Then find a way to stop him from pursuing me, Lysa, and you can have your wish,” she told her younger sister. Walking around the two and retrieving Mother’s meal to deliver, Sansa's mind was churning with memories and imagination.

_I’ve got to put an end to this before it truly grows._


	7. Actions and Consequences

SANSA STARK

_Day 16, 11 th moon, 275 AC_

Carrying Mother’s meal with her mind rampant, Sansa walked past Petyr with his pinking cheek, who Lysa was fussing over. It was with muscle memory that she was leaving the very hall where Petyr just kissed her. She couldn’t plan right now, her thoughts were a littered mess.

Not far from a corner, she nearly upended Mother’s meal on her uncle, who took a look further down the hall before looking back at her. “Kindly explain what I see and why Lysa screamed ‘whore’,” he told her.

“Baelish,” she blurted out, lacking the composure a lady should have. “I said no, but he kissed me anyway. I slapped him. I _told_ him no; for a moon.”

Blackfish sighed and shook his head. “Fostering the boy was a bad idea, Hoster,” he murmured to himself and turned his attention back to her. “And your sister?”

Having told someone the basics of it calmed her. “Believes I’m teasing him and wanted it,” Sansa said. “I don’t want it. Never did, never will. He’s tried to catch me alone since I arrived here.”

Uncle Brynden sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Behind her the sound of moving feet weakened, presumably the kitchen staff who’d done nothing. They couldn’t have known, but all the same, it would have been nice if she’d receive their help. Their presence alone might have prevented Petyr tonight had he had an audience to speak against him. But that wouldn’t have stopped him from trying another time, she told herself; she knew that much was true.

“Is that meal for my goodsister?” Blackfish enquired, to which she nodded silently. He sighed and held the tray. “Deliver the meal and be in the Lord’s solar in two hours. Compose yourself in the meantime if necessary,” he instructed Sansa, who gave another nod and went on her way leaving Petyr and Lysa behind. “Lysa, go to your bedchamber. Baelish, with me. The rest of you, scatter,” she heard him reorder the chaos from this afternoon.

Chaos, she recalled hearing Lord Baelish say when she’d watched the ships in King’s Landing.

Sansa was no longer the naïve girl from that time and had grown to understand the true meaning of his words. One example as his comment of ‘growing strong’ after rescuing her. He’d been a part of Joffrey’s death and once the deed was done he had the Key to the North in his possession, for that was what she’d become after the murder of Robb and Catelyn Stark. Upon arrival at his holdings at the Fingers, he married Lysa and become Lord Protector of the Vale, then he killed her aunt and practically became the Warden of the East considering Sweet Robin’s state of mind.

Everything he did lifted him higher in the ranks of Westeros.

_When did he last start climbing that ladder? The night of Catelyn’s betrothal feast, wasn’t it? I remember Lysa talking about that night. Gods, I hope she’s not too infatuated with him already. I’d hoped to have more time._

Taking a breath, Sansa steeled herself and straightened her back, a confident stride in her step despite the situation. She had to rise above it and not let the fact she wasn’t prepared for the potential consequences of Petyr kissing her; not the kiss itself. A kiss was nothing from what she had had to do to survive.

 _Never again._ She mentally avowed. _It’s my choice to make._

 

_“With my wits and Cat’s beauty, the world will be yours, sweetling,” Littlefinger told her in the Vale._

 

 _This time he’s grown obsessed with_ me. _I have to stop him before he starts. Mayhaps with time Lysa’s attention will be for another if Father merely decides to send Petyr away to the Fingers. She’s young enough for there to be hope yet. Lysa’s nine, but slightly mad; I can see traces of it._

_Littlefinger did so much to the Starks, but not again._

As easy as it would be to dispose of him the way Arya would have, Sansa couldn’t afford to do it. Not now at least because she needed to be trusted by her family; her foundations in this life. If Petyr was dead within a few moons near Riverrun the blame could be placed upon her, and destroy what little trust she’d garnered here beyond Mother’s.

Catelyn barely interacted with her beyond duty; Lysa was jealous of Sansa and Cat receiving Petyr’s attention; Blackfish was wary of her; and Father mainly observed his newest daughter’s behaviour and abilities. She needed at least Father on her side, and according to Mother, he was grateful to Sansa for supporting his wife who was heavy with child.

Walking up to the higher levels where their chambers resided, Sansa entered Mother’s bedchambers and saw her stir in her sleep. Most likely disturbed by the smell of food Sansa carried.

_She’s finally sleeping well and now I have to wake her._

“Mother,” Sansa whispered after putting the tray down. Mother stirred but did little else. Sitting on the stool and taking Mother’s hand in both of her own, Sansa thumbed the palm with a small amount of pressure. “I know you’re tired but you must wake, Mother. I’m sorry.”

This time Mother slowly opened her brown eyes. “Sansa,” she acknowledged tiredly, sitting up and tucking thick pillows behind her, and Sansa helped Mother move to rest against them. “You wouldn’t wake me without reason,” Mother pointed out in a soft tone. She glanced down at their hands and watched Sansa’s face for a moment. “You’re worrying me, sweetling. Say something. What troubles you?”

_Many things, Mother._

“I worry about Cat, Lysa and me. It's Petyr,” Sansa began, regaining confidence in her speech now that she’d had a chance to think. Mother’s expression was one of listening without judgement. “I told him to leave me alone; to only talk because I don't think of him romantically.” Mother’s expression slowly changed to something more serious. “A guard told me he used to do exactly the same with Catelyn before I came." That last was a partial lie.

The reaction was immediate. “What’s happened, Sansa? I’ve never seen you rattled,” Mother urged, taking Sansa hands in hers while moving towards the middle of the bed, bringing Sansa with her. “Doubts about the family, yes, but not fear,” she remarked before her eyes turned protective. “What has Petyr done to my three girls, Sansa?”

“He kissed me although I said no,” she said outright to save Mother from unnecessary worrying caused by an overlong conversation with half-answers. "For a moon, I've been turning him away but Petyr persisted. He used to try and do the same to Cat and never managed, but just now he forced a kiss on me,” Sansa explained softly. “Lysa’s infatuated with him despite all this."

The look on Mother became regretful. “Come here, Sansa,” she told her, wrapping an arm around Sansa’s back. "It seemed like innocent play at the time. The hooked arms and brief hugs I witnessed,” she explained, tucking a loose lock of Sansa’s hair behind her ear. “I never imagined he’d harass and assault a daughter of mine as he did to you. Why didn’t you say something, sweetling? You turned him away for a full moon?”

Sansa straightened up a little. “Would the words of you or Father have made a difference? He was persistent and no doubt circumvent any rules set to stop him.”

Mother was aghast at Sansa’s blunt acceptance of the situation. “Petyr could have been sent away, Sansa. Back to the Fingers and out of your life,” she countered, looking so sad that Sansa had been uncomfortable in her own home. “Am I the first you’ve told, sweetling?” Mother asked, gently wrapping her arms around Sansa. “Are you hurt?”

Sansa leaned into the embrace and tension she hadn’t known of melted away. “When he kissed me, I slapped him. He wouldn’t listen to the word ‘No’,” Sansa explained, hoping that the admitted aggressiveness wouldn’t make Mother think less of her. Being cared about in such a way again was softening the wall around her heart; one that had been abused in her past life. With her head on Mother’s shoulder, Sansa spoke in a low tone. “Uncle Brynden came upon us in the hall when Lysa called me a whore for all to hear, but I’ve been called worse before.”

She was not a weak person, but a hardened one that received no reprieve. It was no crime to relish in a comfort she’d been long denied. Mother was the only person that she dropped her guard around, and Sansa believed she might have deduced that.

Mother said nothing for a while as she held Sansa close and rubbed her back. After all the stress and worry tiring her and the comfort from Mother lulling her into a relaxed state, Sansa admittedly could have fallen asleep.

“That boy will not remain in Riverrun,” Mother told her firmly, drawing Sansa out of the peaceful rest. “Your father won’t stand for it once your uncle tells him. And neither will I.” There was a light peck on her temple. “And I’ll be having words with Lysa.”

With wry amusement, Sansa lifted her head and met Mother’s eyes. “You might not have to have words, Mother,” she told her, and the woman looked to her in silent question. “Uncle Brynden certainly heard it and he’s arranged for a meeting in two hours,” she told Mother, who placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

“The Lord’s solar?” Mother guessed, garnering a nod from Sansa in confirmation.

“Yes, but are you sure you want to go?”

Sansa heard Mother huffed before turning her head towards hers. “What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t?” she questioned rhetorically.

“One heavy with child and doubtlessly tired,” she reasoned without faltering. “Father and Uncle Brynden would be enough, surely?”

Minisa sighed and lightly directed Sansa to rest against her shoulder, playing with the auburn braid. “You’re a strong girl, Sansa. Taking the situation with your head held high-.”

“It’s not very high,” she jested lightly.

“-and making japes about it,” Mother continued as though she hadn’t been interrupted. After a pause, she drew back and took a good look at Sansa. “I think that’s the first jape you’ve made here in Riverrun, aside from being in Prince Oberyn’s company,” she remarked, tracing Sansa’s cheek and letting her hand fall to meet her daughter’s hands.

“It is.”

Laughing softly, Minisa gave Sansa’s forehead a peck. “You’re a wonder, Sansa. Tully and Whent for all to see and beneath you have something I can’t name.”

“I like to think of something strong and hard to break,” Sansa murmured softly.

Mother squeezed her for a second. “Yes, Sansa, you are such a resilient girl to have withstood this for a moon.” There was a peaceful pause. “Steel, I think,” she murmured softly, causing Sansa to look up in surprise, but Mother’s eyes had the glaze of deep thought. “The steel of a Stark, the people say in the North,” Mother murmured, absently playing with Sansa’s braid. Sansa had to smother her catch of breath to protect the truth. “It is said that Starks endured The Long Night with steel will.”

The comment had made her heart pang, as much as she wanted to say she was a Stark she couldn’t. Swallowing, Sansa suppressed some of the emotions that arose. “That’s not something a person says lightly. When you first told me about it, you said the North considers it high praise,” she pointed out, wondering what was going through Mother’s mind. “You think I’m truly worthy of such words, Mother?” Sansa asked, a longing pang for her first family.

“I know you’re worthy, Sansa Tully.”

It took everything Sansa had to discreetly hold back tears at the declaration. She brought her mask up to make sure she didn’t. The mask she’d worn to protect herself at her worst and weakest moments. “Mother…,” she started. “Thank you.”

Minisa leaned back and cupped Sansa’s face. “I know that expression, Sansa,” Mother lightly scolded with a gentle look. “Don’t hide behind it. It’s alright to cry, sweetling. You can’t be steel all the time,” she told her daughter, encompassing her with a hug.

Sansa shook trying to control herself; Mother murmured sweet nothings into her ear.

 

CATELYN TULLY

In the Lady’s solar, Catelyn stood listening to muffled sobs coming from the adjoined room and silently stepped closer to the open door of Mother’s bedchamber.

Mother was inside on the bed embracing the bastard as it wiped its eyes and assisting Mother to rise from the bed. Her supposed sister straightened her back and met Mother’s eyes. “Mother…I love you.”

Catelyn witnessed her mother give the interloper a genuine smile as though the declaration was the most joyous thing in that moment. “Your eyes are no longer clouded when you say it,” Mother remarked and stepped forward to give a gentle embrace. “I love you too, my daughter.”

Remaining in the shadows, she watched silently as Mother unravelled the bastard’s braid and proceeded to brush the girl’s hair out until it shined. She did not miss the way that Mother looked at the locks with a soft smile before taking up a small portion and made a thin braid on either side that met at the back and hung freely with rest of the red hair that fell past her shoulders.

“That day in your father’s solar when you had your hair like this, the sunlight made it shine like molten copper,” Mother said, idly playing with a lock while gazing at the looking glass over the girl’s shoulder with a smile. “Such a beautiful shade of red and the light only added to it; your eyes, cerulean blue. I thought to myself ‘What else could she be but a Tully?’.”

Catelyn frowned, subconsciously glancing at her darker hair, and continued to listen as Mother spoke.

“Then I looked at your face properly for the first time, and something in my heart told me you were mine. Unable the explain how yet there you were, standing proud like a lady and awaiting whatever outcome the meeting would give you. I had no name for the look of your eyes, but it was your steel will ready to face the world’s decision.”

_She’s a bastard, Mother._

“And that same steel determination helped you rise above your obstacles. I am proud of you, Sansa. Like a trout to water, you’ve handled half of a Lady’s duties as well as care for Edmure additionally. You are so easy to love, my girl.”

 _She shouldn’t_ be _handling half of my duties in the first place!_

Catelyn cupped her elbows and quietly went over to a looking glass in the solar, taking in her own features. Tully colouring and the face of Mother.

“I hope Catelyn has that same steel beneath her skin as you do, Sansa,” her mother said from the bedchamber. Looking towards its door, Catelyn remained where she was by the desk. “She’s going to need it.”

Grasping the table, she resisted the urge to lash out at the ledgers she was forced to share with the bastard. The girl made it look like she’d had done it all her life.

_I am not incapable of my duties._

“Why would you say so, Mother?”

Catelyn turned towards the open door to hear the answer. What did the girl have that she lacked? Although Catelyn had no romantic interest in Petyr, she hadn’t missed the way that his interest had immediately shifted from her to the bastard. Lusting after her and all but forgetting about his desire for Catelyn before.

“Catelyn’s going to be betrothed to a Stark soon,” Mother answered. “Your father has been exchanging ravens with the Starks to betroth Catelyn to Brandon and Lord Stark has agreed. I trust you can keep confidence about this, my daughter. Lady Lyarra Stark has reassured me Catelyn will be treated well in Winterfell."

Standing absolutely still, Catelyn shook with anger that Mother had told the bastard. _What right did it have to know what the future held for her?_

There was a minute or so where Catelyn heard the sound of cutlery before the girl’s voice came from the room. “Mother,” she said hesitantly. “Catelyn…she doesn’t like change, and there are no septs in most of the North. Will she have to pray to the Old Gods instead?”

The eldest daughter of Minisa Tully bristled at the gall the girl had. To speak as though changing from the Faith of the Seven was as simple as changing dresses. _Why couldn’t the Seven take away the bastard and be done with this ill-begotten mockery?_

Remaining out of sight, Catelyn scowled in the direction of the bedchambers and the pretty little girl that had enthralled all but Lysa and Uncle Brynden. However, Uncle Brynden was beginning to fall for her charms, she’d witnessed.

“Sansa, I know she hasn’t been kind to you. Much to my shame,” Mother apologised, sounding contrite of what Catelyn had done. “If I was ever to request one thing of her, it would be that she made an effort to accept you. I want peace between my daughters; all three of you.”

The thought of making Mother feeling as though she’d failed in raising her children made guilt run within Catelyn, but that was all she felt.

The baseborn sighed. “If Petyr stayed away from me there would be peace between Lysa and I. Catelyn, for the most part, has pretended I don’t exist. But that was her decision. It’s not your fault.”

There was a clink of knife and fork touching a plate before Mother responded. “When you become a mother, Sansa, you will learn that a mother believes that the failings of her children are also her own.”

“Then I shall endeavour to make your wish a reality, but it may take time,” the bastard avowed.

“That’s the most I could ever ask of you, Sansa.” 

Catelyn grew irritated from listening to the way Mother spoke to the girl as though she was one of her own, so she went over to the solar door and made it sound like she was entering. “Mother? There’s been an incident between Petyr and Sansa,” she said, gritting her teeth when she said the girl’s name. Walking into the bedchambers and saw the pair of them moving from the looking glass together; the light of the candles making the girl’s milk-white skin stand out. “Father would like you to come to his solar soon.”

Mother met Catelyn’s eyes, who felt as though they were telling Mother something. Mayhaps she could see something was bothering her eldest. “Thank you, Cat,” Mother said touching her cheek. “Is all well with you?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Mother,” she calmly spoke, forcing to keep her hurts out of her voice. Stepping aside so Mother had more ease leaving her suite, Catelyn followed behind the pair for the short distance to Father’s Solar. Strangely it was absent of Father and Uncle, but Catelyn knew they wouldn’t be far away by now. The baseborn girl assisted Mother into her seat and received a peck on the cheek along with a quiet word.

_Gods, Mother, can you dote on her more than you already do?_

Taking her own seat, Catelyn took her time and watched the girl who’d come to Riverrun and uprooted everything for Catelyn since. She’d lost her friend to the bastard, fitting that the baseborn was the one he kissed. Catelyn didn’t see him beyond friendship and oftentimes saw him pining for the girl. Mother had immediately taken a liking to her and Catelyn didn’t forget the way they’d spoken of love in Mother’s bedchamber. The duties Mother taught her had been split with the bastard, who showed too much of a deft hand at them for her liking.

Beauty.

Wits.

Affection.

_Where does it end?_

Catelyn caught herself from scowling in the presence of Mother and looked up at the opening of the door. Entering the room was Lysa led by Father to the seating on Mother’s side of the room while Uncle Brynden brought Petyr to an isolated seat in front of Father’s desk and had a hand resting on the back of Petyr’s chair.

_Sweet little Sansa has made you into a pining fool, hasn’t she, Petyr?_

“I expected better behaviour from you, Petyr Baelish,” Father began where he stood from behind the desk. “Mischievous play with the girls is one thing, but to assault one of my daughters after she rejects you time and again is unacceptable of a ward.”

Catelyn glanced at Sansa and saw that she’d been touched by Father’s words.

“Lord Tully-“

Father’s eyes grew fierce. “You will speak when asked, boy. Interrupt again and I will turn you out of Riverrun tonight without a second thought.”

“Yes, my Lord Tully.”

“Sansa,” Father called upon the bastard in a kinder tone. “Did you, in any way, act in a manner that could have misled him to believe his affections were welcome?” 

Perfect little Sansa was sitting like a practised lady. “No, Lord Father, I did not,” she denied. “I often took turns so our paths wouldn’t cross,” the bastard explained.

“She slapped him hard enough,” Uncle Brynden muttered, pointing out the clear handprint on Petyr’s cheek.

_Little savage._

Mother stirred in her seat. “Hoster, I want the boy gone. He’s made too many advances on our children as it is.”

“No!” Lysa objected loudly. “Petyr did nothing wrong. She’s been fooling with his feelings,” her sister argued vehemently, rising from her seat.

Father stared at Lysa until her anger was only simmering. “Sit down, Lysa, and control yourself,” he told her firmly. “Your uncle has told me the contrary was witnessed by the kitchen servants.”   

Lysa sat down quietly out of respect for their father, but it was clear that she was enraged by the direction this meeting was taking. Catelyn hadn’t been present for what happened and didn’t want to lose Petyr’s friendship, but if witnesses had told Father that the confrontation between Petyr and the girl had been less than welcome there was little chance that Father would allow for him to remain.

“Could you elaborate on what you said, Minisa?” Father asked curiously, watching as Mother looked at her two daughters and the baseborn.

“It’s been more than just Sansa, my husband,” Mother began with certainty. “From what I’ve been told tonight, Petyr has made attempts to approach Catelyn in a similar manner in the past but failed.” Catelyn listened in surprise for Mother had never been present when Petyr _had_ managed a brief kiss she had pulled away from and left. That same day she saw Lysa continue the kiss Petyr had given her. “And it’s quite clear that all our girls will be better off without him here. Catelyn’s all but betrothed, and so will Sansa and Lysa in due time.”

Her father with increased severity stared at Petyr who appeared to be tempted to speak. “Baelish,” Father addressed seriously. “To force yourself upon a girl, let alone my daughter, is intolerable. At dawn you will be escorted to your father’s keep in the Vale by a party of soldiers,” he told Catelyn’s friend with finality. “Keep your distance from my daughters in the future or there shall be consequences.”

 

SANSA STARK

_Day 17, 11 th moon, 275 AC_

Sansa watched from the battlements as a small contingent of mounted men surrounding Petyr Baelish spurred their horses. It wasn’t only relief at the sight of him leaving Riverrun, but also a concern. Going against the old adage of ‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’ made her fret about what alternate scheme Baelish could brew. He had been a mastermind in her last life and influenced Westeros from the shadows, stirring trouble to his benefit.

If he was Littlefinger he'd embed himself into the lives of the Waynwoods in some way. However, House Baelish was a lesser house.

From what she had observed of the Tully household over the past moon, there were hints of Lysa’s affection towards Petyr, but not as deep as her obsession in the Eyrie. Her jealousy was evident though.

_I can only pray his absence from her life for at least the next few years will be enough to make a difference. With Petyr returning to the Fingers at a young age of seven there is time for Lysa to forget about him yet._

Conceding that furthering herself into a worried state would be of no benefit to her, Sansa turned away and walked along the battlements to enjoy the cool wind on her face. It hardly compared to the winds of the North, but it was the closest she imagine herself receiving any time soon.

She thought back to the meeting last night.

During the meeting, Father had referred to her as his daughter and to hear that touched her heart, but Sansa didn’t let herself get too caught up in it because that had been a formal setting when he uttered it. Whether it was to protect the truth of her identity from Petyr, Sansa was unsure; there was every chance that Petyr had deduced her story was a ruse or been told by one of her sisters. If he knew, it could be used against her when he needed to manipulate a situation in the near future.

Not enough time had passed for the story to truly take root and be accepted as nothing but the truth by the people of Westeros. Until then, she would need to be vigilant and present herself as a true and indisputable Tully.

_I need to make myself a person of good repute in Westeros and that will require focus._

While last night had had its moment of panic and stress, Sansa was beyond happy that Mother had, in a way, told her she was like a Stark.

In truth, the compliment from Mother was merely that, but to Sansa, it meant everything. During her previous girlhood, Sansa hadn’t been oblivious to the whispered japes that she was a trout in wolf skin, and it had embedded doubts within her mind until she encountered Jon in the North some time after leaving the Eyrie. The need to fight for her home, to save friends and family from the Boltons, had evoked something within her. Her quiet inner wolf had never bared its fangs until the fight for home using her skills of diplomacy and grace.

She hadn’t felt so happy in a long time, but remembered she still had the duty of saving Westeros and the Starks. And now her second family, the Tullys.

With Petyr’s presence removed from House Tully at the tender age of seven, he would have difficulty gaining a foothold in Westeros as he’d done previously unless there was an advantageous family in the Vale. Last night Father had told her how Petyr had come to be a ward of his house; through the friendship of men who’d fought together in the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Being raised in Riverrun was a large leap for someone of low birth from the rocky Fingers, and now without his presence in a great house and reputation blackened, Sansa wondered how he would work his way towards the Iron Throne.

_Was the Iron Throne yet his goal?_

Petyr Baelish was no longer in a position where he would be well remembered and made the Master of Coin after the Rebellion. Not easily, at least. No doubt Jon Arryn would question why a party of Tully soldiers was escorting a seven-year-old boy through the Vale. Sansa didn’t take Father to be a fool and he would have sent word to the Gates of the Moon ahead of time, explaining why armed men of the Riverlands were venturing through the Vale.

Anyone who learnt the story of what happened in Riverrun would develop distrust toward Petyr, thus staining his reputation in at least the Vale. Matters of growing influence to create chaos had become substantially more difficult for Petyr.

_I’ll be watchful for any clues of him gaining power or reputation. There’s only so much I can do against someone with Petyr’s ambition. Littlefinger had plans and contingency plans last time._

Coming to a stop at the western drawbridge, Sansa stared out towards River Road that continued southwest to Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Oberyn had taken that road and she wondered whether he was coming back some day. His company was one that she hadn’t expected to miss. Wits and intellect combined with japes was a scarce mixture found in the hearts of good men. Hopefully, he would return Needle to her one day. It was aboard his ship in the east to her knowledge, but with Mother so close to having a new babe Sansa couldn’t afford to leave temporarily.

_I need to be here. For my new home to become a secure one; without it I have nothing._

“Sansa.” Turning around at the voice of her father, she bowed her head briefly and noticed his expression of regret. “I’m sorry you felt alone concerning Petyr Baelish. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

She wasn’t perturbed by the question and spoke what she felt was true. “Father, I was in a difficult position. It began the day I arrived here,” she began, meeting his eyes. “My place within the family was tenuous at best. Had I said anything within the first sennight, I doubt it would have resulted in anything good,” Sansa defended with logic. “Who would have been believed? The newcomer or the favoured ward?” she pointed out gently.

Hoster Tully grimaced at the reasoning and nodded his head. “No one can argue that, Sansa,” he conceded grudgingly. “But the next time something like this happens I want you to come to me,” Father asked her and she nodded. “Unexplainable as your presence is, I consider you a daughter.” He hesitated for a second and she watched as he placed a light hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want you fighting such battles alone.”

Looking back up at his eyes, Sansa gave a small smile. “I understand. Should it happen again I will tell you,” she promised, observing his expression so to understand the depth of the relationship between them.

Father wasn’t uncaring and seemed to be slowly accepting her into the fold of his family. She hadn’t expected anything further after only a moon. Sansa tending to the needs of Mother and Edmure must have sown some trust between them.

She tested the waters with a safe jape. “And Father? Whatever do you mean ‘unexplainable presence’? I was raised in Harrenhal until now.”

The man had a wry smile. “Indeed you were,” he murmured quietly and looked out towards River Road. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Sansa. And worry not about Lord Whent. He agreed to the story two sennights ago.”

“Surely he needed proof for your request?” Sansa prodded with curiosity.

Father turned to her and gestured towards the godswood. “He saw you walking Edmure while he was in the company of myself and your sisters. Lord Whent understood my decision and swore cooperation,” he reassured her, and half turned towards a castle entrance with an expectant look. "Your mother's words no doubt played a role."

Following him indoors, Sansa caught up to his side and kept pace. “Thank you, Father.”

“You’re welcome, Sansa. I shall see you at the midday meal unless there was anything you need to discuss?” he replied patiently, coming to a stop by his solar door.

Shaking her head she gave him a grateful smile as she declined. “All is well, Father,” she told him. “I best retrieve Mother’s breaking of fast from the kitchens.”

“Very well then, daughter,” Father responded before entering his solar and seating himself at the desk. There was a clutter of parchments and he took one from the pile.

Taking her leave and feeling lighter in knowing that her position in Westeros was slowly gaining strength, Sansa went down to the kitchens and retrieved Mother’s meal. On her way to deliver it, there was Catelyn watching her with a bitter look but Sansa didn’t let it bother her. Instead, she recalled her promise to Mother last night.

“Good morrow, Catelyn,” she said patiently, gazing at Cat to gauge her response.

Dead silence.

Sighing, she continued on with the knowledge that she had at least tried meeting Catelyn halfway. Entering the Lady’s solar and Mother’s bedchamber soon after. Mother was clearly sleeping so Sansa walked over to the opposite side of the bed and placed the tray on the small table there.

Sansa walked very lightly over to Mother’s side and gave her a feather-light kiss on the cheek. She left her in peace. Closing the door to the bedchambers upon entering the solar she walked out into the hall and proceeded down towards Edmure’s nursery. The boy would need to move to a bedchamber soon.

“Lady Sansa,” Maester Kym called out just as she’d turned a corner.

Coming to a stop, she saw that he hadn’t been far and had a sealed letter in his hand. "Yes, Maester Kym?” she replied with ease. Inside she was terrified, for who would have written and why?

“A letter for you, my lady.”

Accepting the letter, Sansa turned it over and saw that it wasn’t Lannister red wax or Arryn blue; not that Petyr could possibly be there yet since he’d just departed Riverrun. She calmed at the sight and looked to the maester. “Thank you, Maester Kym. Could you tell me who sent it?” she requested politely, having neglected to take a proper look.

The maester shook his head lightly. “Not who, my lady, but where,” he explained. “Winterfell.”

She lifted her thumb and had to stifle the gasp. Grey wax with the sigil of a direwolf. “The Starks? What interest would they have in me?” she said more to herself than the maester.

“I do not know, my lady.”

Meeting the maester’s eyes, she nodded. “Thank you, Maester Kym.” And the maester took his leave.

Going to a quiet alcove of Riverrun, Sansa broke the wax and proceeded to read.

 

_Lady Sansa Tully,_

_It brings relief to a mother when all her children are safe and healthy._

_Upon your father’s missive sharing the news of your return from Harrenhal, I felt I should write to congratulate you for defeating the odds of illness that kept you from your mother, Lady Minisa, for most of your girlhood. Although I myself never lost a child to illness in the North, it is harsh here in winter and not every babe survives the cold. You survived a long battle of your own and I wish you every happiness now that you’re with your family once more._

_As you read this, I am venturing south to Riverrun to meet my future gooddaughter, your sister, Lady Catelyn._

_May all be well for House Tully._

_Lady Lyarra Stark_

_Lady of Winterfell_

 

Sansa smiled. 


	8. A Welcome Face

SANSA STARK

_Day 2, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

Seated on the chair near the end of Mother’s bed, Sansa was working on a mummer’s gown of forest green and white, watching over her as she added the finer needlepoint artistry of her embroidery style.

Mother, now looking as though she was near the end of carrying her child, awoke and subconsciously touched her swollen stomach. When Mother turned her head towards Sansa, she rose from the chair and took the stool next to the bed. “Sansa,” she acknowledged, warm eyes taking in her face. “Sweetling, can you do something for me?”

“Of course, Mother,” Sansa replied without hesitation. “Anything.”

Sansa’s mother chuckled lightly. “Go for a ride and enjoy the daylight,” Mother asked. “For me, if you must.”

Perplexed by such a request, Sansa attempted to read Mother’s eyes to understand why. “You’ve never asked that of me before,” she pointed out, taking Mother’s hand and thumbing the back of her palm. “What about you?”

“I think I shall be fine, my girl,” Mother said, the expression was gentle and caring. “Six sennights here at Riverrun and hardly a day spent for your own pleasure? Go on, Sansa. Go outside. Have a ride in the open air. I want this for you.”

Within herself was a battle of duty against pleasure. Sansa wanted to make sure she did everything possible to help while Mother carried the child. She was by no means stupid and incapable of understanding what was being asked of her, however, the request was something she never would have expected. Mother was heavy with child and needed to be taken care of, but when her hand was squeezed, Sansa covered Mother’s hand with her own and leaned forward. “You’re not a burden, Mother.”

There was a quirk on the woman’s lips that smoothed to a smile. “I love you too, sweetling,” she replied warmly. Gesturing to the finished clothes at the end of the bed, Mother released her light grip and rested her head on the pillow. “Put it on and ride for a few hours. No one will think ill of you.”

Leaning forward and giving Mother a peck to the temple, it seemed as though a light warmth grew within her when Mother smiled to Sansa's wordless surrender. She walked down to the end of Mother’s bed and retrieved the deceptive clothes. She hesitated to leave and turned to her mother who gave a nod. Mother wanted this, so Sansa squared her shoulders. “I’ll find Catelyn and ask her to attend to you,” she said, Cat wouldn't neglect to watch Mother given the opportunity.

“Have some fun, Sansa,” Mother said.

When she reached the closed door, Sansa turned a little and met Mother's brown eyes. “Riding isn’t a favourite of mine, but I’ll try.”

There was a chuckle from the bed. “Just go, sweet girl,” her mother told Sansa lightly. “I’m telling your father if you’re back in here before the midday meal,” she mock-threatened, garnering a short chuckle from Sansa.

Slightly bowing her head to Mother, Sansa did as she was bid and left the bedchambers with her mummer’s gown in hand. Venturing down the hall and into her bedchamber she changed out of her dress and into the mummer’s gown with little trouble. For precaution, one knife to each thigh and as well as Dusk, gifted to her in Braavos, tied to her arm. Hair already gathered in a single braid, Sansa retrieved her riding gloves and made for the gardens of Riverrun. There in the sun were Catelyn talking with Lysa and the septa of Riverrun.

Lysa noticed her first. “Good morrow, Sansa,” she frostily said, likely still displeased with Petyr being sent away two sennights ago.

Letting the bite in Lysa’s words to simply wash over her, Sansa reacted as though it has merely been a polite greeting. “Good morrow, Lysa,” she return with calm. “Good morrow, Cat. Septa.”

Catelyn’s eyes tightened when she repeated the greeting back to Sansa. “Good morrow, Sansa.”

The septa said nothing and gave a short nod before walking away stiffly.

“Our mother has asked something of me and I was wondering, Catelyn, if you would watch over her in my absence?” she asked. As time had passed since Petyr's dismissal, Sansa was forced to recall the fact that adults she'd once known were still children in the eyes of Westeros now and their behaviour could be dismissed in the future if they acted as better people then. Catelyn, herself and Lysa were eleven, ten, and nine respectively. All ages where some matters could be brushed aside as being young and foolish.

Unfortunately, that truth applied to all children.

_Petyr…_

Mentally shaking off the train of  dark thoughts, Sansa didn’t have to wait for Cat’s reply. “I shall,” Catelyn confirmed. “And what requires riding? I can see your gloves,” her sister questioned sternly.

“Flowers to brighten Mother’s bedchambers,” Sansa improvised, well-accustomed to the need of believable answers since King’s Landing. “Vibrant colours that grow along the river.”

The two sisters in the gardens exchanged brief looks and Lysa nodded to Sansa before walking off. Catelyn, on the other hand, remained, stepping closer until they were merely a few feet apart. “Being in my mother’s good graces means nothing to me, _bastard_.”

Sansa stared into those bitter eyes without the aggression Catelyn displayed. “Mother desires peace between us, sister. We’re family. Would you deny her that?”

“You’re not my sister,” Catelyn retorted sharply. “But an intruder masquerading as a Tully.”

Sansa stood firm. “Sansa, intruder, or bastard, I don’t care what you call me in private,” she dismissed.  “What I care about is our mother; her happiness.” Sansa took a step forward and halved the gap. “Her body is growing weak, I assure you. Ask Maester Kym if you must, but she may not be among us for much longer,” Sansa warned her sister as she spoke her own fears. “It pains her to see us at odds, Catelyn,” she urged, attempting to appeal to Cat’s love for their mother. “Is that what you want for Mother? Needless pain so near what could be her end?”

She had Cat in a corner, but didn’t let it show on her face. Catelyn sneered and took a step back. “Pretty words, bastard. Mother was happy before you came here.”

She could only frown at the pettiness coming from the woman who’d been her mother in another life. “If I were to leave Riverrun, it would sadden Mother further,” she pointed out, not taking a seat to avoid the illusion of defeat. “Life is what we make it. Make the best of the situation so Mother can have closure, Catelyn,” Sansa urged her sister.  “I am trying to give her that, but I need you to work with me.”

Catelyn glared at Sansa and left in the same direction as the septa from earlier.

Watching her go, Sansa sighed sadly and turned to the stables. A horse that Mother told Sansa was now hers, but not ridden once yet, she approach its stall. Inside Sansa assisted the stable boy in saddling the grey mare before she led it into the yard of Riverrun. Pulling the laces of her skirt, Sansa soon had it around her shoulders and out of the way which allowed her to mount the mare with easily upon placing her foot in the hands of the stable boy. Being younger had its disadvantages; but she was a taller child than most.

Approaching the western gate at a trot, Sansa was joined by two mounted soldiers when she crossed the drawbridge, and proceeded to ride west in the direction of Wayfarer’s Rest. A couple of miles from Riverrun resided its town, and Sansa considered it likely they sold the flowers growing from the area.

A lovely gift for Mother; and keep Cat off her back.

Increasing the pace to a canter Sansa kept a loose grip on the reins. The horse was almost prancing in its stride, no doubt happy to be on the open ground and the rhythmic motion of running. She'd never seen this part of Westeros and the scenery was a beautiful sight of rolling hills towards the distant border shared with the Westerlands while the continuing Red Fork ran deeper inland.

Relaxing in the saddle and playing with flying strands of the horse's mane, the calm atmosphere was slowly trickling joy into Sansa; Mother had been right to tell her to go for a ride. Brief it was so far but a revitalising thing all the same.

Over the course of the past moon and a half, Sansa wouldn't deny she had spent more time than considered healthy by Mother's side. Duties and sewing in the bedchambers of Riverrun's lady encompassed all she'd done upon arriving. For the first moon, they had been a refuge from Petyr Baelish pursuits for her affection. However, Sansa hadn't changed the routine upon his dismissal by Father two sennights ago. Sansa was clinging to Mother’s side despite the absence of a need to hide.

Sansa was fearful for Minisa but hadn’t dared to say to anyone why.

And Mother had a knowing look when Sansa came into the Lady's bedchambers with needle and thread day after day.

Keeping a watchful eye out for the town, Sansa slowed the grey mare and scanned the area for Riverside; the town House Tully had the most interaction with in the Riverlands; aside from the Riverlords. Directing the horse over to the tavern, she tied it to a post as did her escort.

As an alleged daughter of Hoster and Minisa Tully, having her protected by two soldiers was only logical considering there was less trust below The Neck compared to the North. Quickly she laced her skirt to her waist so she would blend in amongst the smallfolk.

Looking at Riverside, she explored the town as she visited it for the first time, comparing it to Winter town silently. The population was larger, suggested by the greater number of houses, many whispers and murmured greetings from the smallfolk. Sansa didn't mind the stares and merely nodded their way, returning the greetings and earning a few smiles..

Taking her time to learn about the town, Sansa picked any grown blooms she saw. As she had done so, a young boy had been watching her and fiddling with a ribbon. Getting the impression he wanted her attention, Sansa came to a stop as she neared him and the five-year-old took a few steps forward.

“For your flowers, Lady Sansa,” the sweet little thing offered as he held out the blue ribbon.

Sansa took the ribbon and tied her bouquet together with deft hands. Kneeling until they were eye level, she gave him a smile. “Lady Tully will be very happy,” she told him.

“They’re for Lady Tully?” he asked, eyes wide.

“They’re for Lady Tully,” Sansa confirmed, smiling at the adorable expression. The boy looked like he would burst and ran over to his mother and started telling her everything for Sansa to hear. Exchanging smiles with the woman, Sansa continued on her way until she was familiarised with Riverside and had met a number of smallfolk and their families.

One of the soldiers broke the silence from between them. “You have a good rapport with the people, Lady Sansa.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Approaching the horses, Sansa accepted his assistance back onto her mount. “Treat the people less than yourself and they won’t respect you as much as they could,” Sansa explained, remembering the distinction between Cersei and Margaery in King’s Landing.

Leaving Riverside, she waved to those who wished her farewell as her horse trotted back towards Riverrun. She wouldn’t ride at a faster pace or the flowers would lose their petals. It was a mercy the wind was a light breeze. The returning journey was slower and quiet until a black sand steed with a fiery mane and tail of red was thundering past making for her home.

The soldiers gave a start but Sansa intervened “Stand down. It’s a friend,” she told them before they could ride in a defensive formation.

Not that it would have mattered. He was far ahead of them by the time they could have done it. Tasking one of the men to carry the bouquet home, Sansa took off at a gallop and after a few minutes was riding side by side.

“Oberyn,” she greeted once he’d he slowed to a trot. “In quite the hurry?” she jested.

“Braavosi Trout,” he replied with an easy grin that became something more thoughtful. “That reminds me. How did you come to cross the Narrow Sea?”

Sansa was neither oblivious to the true question nor stupid, so she gave him a safe answer. “As a babe, I would imagine, since I have no memories of arriving there,” she supplied. “Only that I grew up working to make those gowns.”

“No matter,” he shrugged, turning his attention back to the path. “I thought to visit and see things for myself.” Approaching a crest on their walking horses, Oberyn turned towards her with observant eyes. “Tell me, Sansa, how's your family?”

Seeing no harm, for what harm would there be, Sansa was honest. “My elder sister is the least accepting of me, but Mother calls me her own child,” she told him letting her smile show for what it was. “She said that something told her I was her daughter and nothing less.” Looking at Riverrun a few minutes away, Sansa engrossed herself in the memory of that night. “It was a joy to hear. That she’s my mother.” Her answer could be construed in two ways; that she was truly her birth mother, or that Mother considered Sansa a daughter.

_It’s not really a lie._

Turning her attention back to him, she could see him perplexed but happy for her nonetheless. “That is good news,” he finally said, holding the reins in one hand. “I heard the story Hoster Tully has been circulating in Westeros,” he commented with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Unnerved by that look, Sansa pushed past the feeling and asked the important question. “Did the people seem to believe it?” Remembering the letter she added, “The Starks do.”

“Do they? Aye, I would say people believe so, Little lady. In fact, I may have added something in Lannisport myself.”

Sansa had no doubt she’d gone pale. “Should I be concerned?”

“The opposite, Braavosi Trout,” he told her with a smirk. “I said you're a girl to grow into a thing of beauty that will be the envy of all the women of Westeros.”

“Please tell me that was a jape,” she almost begged. His expression didn’t change and she swallowed. “Gods be good, you didn't do that,” Sansa continued horrified at the potential consequences.

“I did,” he insisted with a grin. “Word is Lady Cersei was furious and the mighty Lord Tywin restricted her to Casterly Rock before he returned to King’s Landing.”

“Gods have mercy, I hope she never attempts to ruin me, Oberyn,” she uttered, a chill sinking in and filled her with dread. There was no doubt in Sansa’s heart that Cersei would never forget this rumour. Cersei had always done her best to look the most beautiful in King’s Landing during Sansa’s time there. 

He glanced at her and she continued.

“One word of Braavos and she'll tear my reputation to shreds,” she pointed out to him. “I live with two jealous sisters; I know what jealous girls do. The quiet and the vocal,” Sansa told him and noticed he was mildly contrite.  “I am a trueborn daughter of Riverrun’s Lord and Lady, Oberyn, and that's who I am. I am nothing else.”

“We will never know for certain if you are trueborn, Sansa,” he said to her surprise. “But the word of the Lord and Lady will suffice.”

“I have the appearance of both Mother and Father, and I have Mother’s temperament. Who else could I be?” Sansa had to shake off a feeling of disgust as she remembered a similar phrase she sung for Littlefinger in the Eyrie, but this time Sansa was not singing.

She was living.

“I am Sansa Tully of Riverrun,” she said, voice coated with true emotion. “Nothing will ever change that.”

Crossing the drawbridge and entering aside one another, Sansa and Oberyn rode into the yard and gave their mounts to the stable boys; one helped her down. The soldier that she’d tasked with carrying the flowers approached and handed them to her. Accepting the flowers back, she turned to Oberyn. “Should I arrange for a guest chamber, Oberyn? Or were you passing through?”

“A chamber, Sansa,” he replied graciously. “Should your father permit it, I intend to be here for some time,” Oberyn said. “Rumour has it Rhaella’s child will survive.” Sansa wasn’t surprised but smiled all the same. “I shall compete in the Lannisport tourney and rendezvous there with my sister, Elia. It’s been a long time. It will displease Lord Tywin, but I do not care for Lord Tywin.”

Wondering how much of an influence she had played in this decision, Sansa pondered what other changes had occurred and something came to mind. “What of your ship and crew in the Saltpans? Will you need to send a raven?” she said, playing the part of a lady.

He seemed amused. “You needn’t concern yourself. They returned to Sunspear and are due to set sail for Lannisport with Elia as we speak,” he told her. “And Sansa? She’s bringing Needle.”

“Thank you, Oberyn. You have my gratitude.” Giving him a curtsy and getting a look of mock disapproval in return, Sansa took her leave with a beaming smile. “I shall organise for your bedchamber, Prince Oberyn.”

She left the yard and informed the chief handmaiden of Riverrun about the need for a guest chamber. Soon after she saw Father passing her and making his way into the dining hall followed by a handmaid bearing refreshments, bread and salt. Satisfied that the customs were being carried out, Sansa delivered her flowers to Mother’s bedchamber where Catelyn was quietly watching over Mother whilst reading a book.

Placing the flowers in the vase nearest to the window, Sansa prayed that Catelyn would do her best to be a lady around their guest. She had no desire for in-house conflict to be witnessed and spoil the visit for Oberyn. “Catelyn,” she murmured once she was beside her. Catelyn said nothing but acknowledged her with her eyes. “Riverrun has a guest; Prince Oberyn Martell. I felt you should know.”

Cat merely gave her a curt nod but didn’t move from her seat. Considering that Sansa had quite thoroughly monopolised Mother’s time since unable to walk around Riverrun with ease, she left the bedchamber peacefully and made her way to the yard. Propped against the wall were Oberyn’s saddlebags, the man himself practising with his partisan inside the area reserved for arms training. The weapon spun in his hands with such fluidity it screamed danger to anyone watching.

“My Prince,” Sansa spoke clearly to draw him out of his focus. There was no chance she was risking getting near that partisan without him holding it unmoving.

“Bra-“

“Not here,” she cut him off. “Only when we’re alone. If word gets out, Father’s story is destroyed,” Sansa continued, watching his eyes and he nodded. “Your guest chambers will be ready for you briefly,” she finished with grace as though chambers were all that they had discussed.

“Very well, Lady Sansa,” he replied, walking over to his bags and resting his partisan against the wall. His hand resting on his sheathed dagger’s hilt, he returned to where he had been training. “Your father is a generous man. He’s granted my stay until I leave for Lannisport.”

Smiling at the news, Sansa approached him when he gestured for her to join him. “I’m glad you have decided to, Oberyn. Your company has been missed.”

“How’s the Blackfish?” he asked glancing over her shoulder, and Sansa assumed Uncle was watching the pair of them. “Has he accepted you like your father?”

She gave him a slight nod. “We’re coming to an understanding.”

“That’s good,” he commented and held out his hand as though he was offering it. “Would you care to dance, my lady? It has been some time.”

He gave his hand a flourish and she laughed at his antics, Sansa pretended to place hers in his to be led in such a thing, however, both of them took a measured step back and drew their blades. “I have to admit, Oberyn, I’ve spent much time with Mother and helping the household,” she divulged, her technique might not be as good as it used to. She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. 

“It doesn’t matter greatly, Sansa. We are not handling swords but smaller weapons. Strength isn’t your concern; it’s memory and reflexes,” Oberyn reassured, while he looked at her form. “Let’s see what you remember.”

She watched him with a sharp eye and her knife held as he’d taught her, waiting for him to make the offensive move. She always deflected and reacted, never aggression.

In her periphery, the Blackfish lingering nearby.

Oberyn struck out.

Sansa deflected as she darted to the side.

It was much like a slow dance to begin with, until memories of training prior to Riverrun resurfaced. Confidence slowly returned and she never remained in the same position for long. The pace increased a little at a time but Sansa was beginning to tire and realised a flaw in only deflecting. She tried to disarm him.

But he blocked her easily. “Are you sure, Sansa?”

“If I constantly deflect I’ll tire and be beaten,” she reasoned, mild fatigue slipping into her voice. “What’s needed so I can disarm and escape?”

Sheathing his dagger, Oberyn stepped forward and she sheathed her knives. “What’s needed to handle any blade?” he asked rhetorically and became serious “Grip, motion and balance. Take those away with quick succession and you can flee,” Oberyn explained, tapping her forearm, upper arm and shoulder as he said each. “Aiming for a hilt is a mistake. You want to get away from their weapon. Not closer.”

Oberyn taught her how to move of out the way of an attacker in only a few steps, while he pretended to be the threat. Darting away from Oberyn, Sansa struggled to see how this alone would be of use but kept that to herself. Once he seemed satisfied with her angle of dodging, he added the use of her knife in her dominant hand and demonstrated how to strike the forearm as she moved away from his body.

This slow process of adding a new step to the basics was time-consuming, but she could see a smooth flow from one step to the next and ending with an escape. Eventually, Sansa squared her shoulders for a challenge. “Oberyn,” she said a little out of breath. “I’d like to try them without prompting if you think it’s not too early?” Sansa asked demurely. She wanted to try.

“Yes, Sansa. It appears you have an understanding of it.” His dagger remained in its sheath and Sansa tilted her head in silent question. “Not yet,” he told her. “Let’s see you join the steps together until they’re like water.”

He moved as though there was a weapon in his hand when he stepped forward in her direction, but Sansa dodged to his side and delivered a slash which he easily moved out of the way but pretended she'd struck him. She slashed the back of the upper arm, imagining a knife in her had, and pushed Oberyn’s arm where the upper wound would have been, taking away his balance. This left Sansa space and time to run had it been a real situation and not training.

Nodding at her, Oberyn went through the routine without being so cooperative to make it more realistic.

“Good. Very good,” he praised when they were having a short drink. “Pushing on the upper wound is a good distraction when the shoulder is beyond reach.” Briefly looking at her, Oberyn seemed to make a decision and didn’t make to return to the centre of the training area. “I think that is enough for today.”

“A little more,” Sansa asked of him from the middle, a little out of breath. “To make sure I have the technique.”

It seemed he granted it with an amused smile. “A few more times today then, my lady. We can continue this in earnest in the morning.”

And so they did. Time after time.

Strike the forearm as she dodged.

Slash the back of the upper arm.

Push the shoulder or upper arm away.

But on her fifth cycle, she tripped and delivered a cut to her wrist.

Oberyn abandoned the training immediately to retrieve a bottle from his saddlebag; pouring a small amount into a spare goblet. “Quickly. Take this,” he urged her, holding the goblet out to her. Sansa was reluctant and it must have shown on her face because he consumed the half goblet full in a single swallow and refilled it. “It's safe,” he reassured her, offering the goblet once more. “There are many veins in the wrist.”

“I can afford a little blood first I think,” Sansa resisted, not moving from her place, there were guards watching from the walls. “I don’t know what that is and if you’ve taken an antidote for it.”

“You know me better than that,” he argued, eyes piercing hers. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have done it on River Road before anyone knew who I am. Two soldiers are hardly a challenge.” Taking a seat, he gestured to his dagger still sheathed. “Or use my dagger here, if I was a complete fool. I am in the heart of Riverrun and training a girl with all the guards to see.” Seeing his point, Sansa accepted it and took the unusual drink without taking her eyes off him. He retrieved a linen and allowed it to absorb the blood coating her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa apologized, once she’d drunk the thick substance. “I shouldn’t think of a friend in such a way.”

“You’re stressed here,” he remarked once she’d relaxed and seated herself down. “You trusted a complete stranger on the journey from Saltpans. I could have done so much to you if I was such filth.”

Looking down in shame, Sansa could feel the guilt well up inside her. “I am stressed here,” she conceded, turning to face him. “I’m sorry I showed such hostility. You have done me no wrong,” she apologized again, hoping he’d forgive her.

He continued watching her and nodded before he rose and began tending to the cut with a new linen. “It is wise to be cautious. You did not know and I do have a reputation for poison.”

“We’re friends, Oberyn. I cut myself. It was not by your hand. I should have known better than to doubt you. My decision led to this,” she pressed with the concern of damaging their friendship still in her mind. He just gave her a quick nod while he looked at her cut with observant eyes. “The taste was very strange; tolerable but strange,” she remarked, looking back at the bottle he’d used. “What is in this concoction?”

His eyes remained on her cut as he gently wiped the skin around her wrist. “In Westeros, difficult to find. But in Essos, abundant.” There must be a story to this and she said nothing. “I fought for the Second Sons for a time. The methods used to heal their own were interesting,” he explained to her eyes their eyes met. “Maesters are too focussed on stopping pain; the healers I met focussed on blood,” the prince continued, looking satisfied when the bleed had slowed significantly. “Blood is life. Lose too much blood, you lose your life.”

Intrigued, tired and the cut stinging from the elements, Sansa didn’t rise from her seat before she looked his way. “It must have been very different from what you learnt in The Citadel.”

“It was. Watch your wrist,” he told her. She lifted her other hand but it was caught instantly.  “Don't touch. Just watch.”

Sansa witnessed in fascination as the flow was becoming almost nonexistent over time. “But how?” she questioned in astonishment. The blood around her cut seemed strangely thick.

The prince chuckled before rising from beside her and retrieving the substance he’d used, putting the lid back on. “That's a secret; even to me,” Oberyn told her kindly. “Always have some nearby, Sansa,” he said, handing her that unlabeled bottle. “Carry some in a vial. A sip is often enough.”

She glanced at it and met his eyes squarely. “You don’t want it back?” It was generous.

“I have another but not yet to use it.”

She should have known better and made a jape on the matter. “The skills of The Red Viper?”

“Exactly,” he replied looking smug.

Sansa laughed a little. “You're insufferable,” she told him from the bench as he made himself comfortable next to her healing wrist.

Oberyn cracked a smile while lightly wrapping her wrist with a bandage. “Glad to be of service, my lady,” he responded and gestured to her hand. “Rest your hand, Sansa. There are many veins but thankfully a shallower cut than I suspected.”

“Thank you, Oberyn.”

“Of course, Sansa.”

Riverrun fell into a routine with the presence of Oberyn here. Catelyn more so than Lysa entertained the prince during the day while Sansa watched over her mother, growing more frightened for her by the day. It had been two days since her notable cut in the yard but now it was scabbed over and healed enough for tasks such as delivering Mother’s meal. Her father spoke to Oberyn on occasion but as Lord Paramount of the Trident he still had matters to attend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ship speed:  
> Catelyn Stark smashed out a ~16 day trip from King's Landing to White Harbour in canon.
> 
> Oberyn’s crew had to deal with getting to open water and The Narrow Sea islands in the way, so my guestimate is 21 days for Saltpans to Sunspear for my fic. By that logic, a trip from Sunspear to Lannisport is feasibly done in a month with considerably smoother sailing in the Summer Sea and Sunset Sea. 
> 
> It’s a canon possible journey. I try to keep close to book canon standards.


	9. Tipping the Scales

SANSA STARK

_Day 5, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

When Sansa was in the company of Mother in the Lady’s bedchamber one morning, she decided to talk about her sisters. Taking a breath, Sansa broached the topic she’d been hesitating to discuss since Petyr’s removal from Riverrun.

“Mother?” she asked nervously when their discussion of considered babe names came to a close.

Mother caught the tone immediately and her eyes watched Sansa. “Aye, sweetling?”

“Catelyn seems confident in fulfilling the duties of a great lady,” she began, referring to the duties Sansa and Cat shared. “But Lysa hasn’t shown much enthusiasm in such things.”

Lying on the bed but alert, Sansa’s mother nodded slowly. “Had it not been for the incident with Petyr Baelish and Lysa's behaviour thereafter I wouldn’t be concerned,” Mother shared softly, idly thumbing Sansa’s hand. “So is your father. At Lysa’s age, Catelyn was well on her way to being prepared to marry someone like the Starks. I dismissed the difference before; believing Lysa would be ready when the time comes. That she learned at a slower pace.”

Blinking at the news, Sansa nudged the conversation along. “What changed?”

Mother smiled up at her. “You.”

“Me?" she repeated, her mind churning. "How, Mother?” She simply couldn't keep the stun out of her voice, which made Mother chuckle.

She played with Sansa’s fingers for a moment and met her eyes. “You’re a dedicated girl who learned what a great lady must know in a short time, my daughter.” Sansa was gathering all of her thoughts to following Mother’s train of conversation and her conclusion could be presumptuous, so it never left her lips. “You and Catelyn are ready for such duties and one day will be great ladies. However, Lysa’s neglect towards learning, and her behaviour concerning that Baelish boy, tells me she needs a different kind of marriage.”

Sansa’s mind was wild with thoughts, but she tamed them quickly. “And you’ve discussed this with Father?”

“Yes, sweetling. Your father has organised for her to join houses with a Riverlord. When Lysa is old enough she will marry their heir.”

Sansa was shocked into silence, staring at her mother wondering just how much this changed the future ahead.

_For the good? The same? Or worse?_

_Will my knowledge still be useful?_

Mother broke the silence. “The lord has already visited to discuss Lysa. She’s all but considered betrothed until she’s at an appropriate age to make it official. Not that she knows just yet.”

Nodding, Sansa took Mother’s hand with her own. “I’m glad you found someone for her, Mother.” Sansa didn’t dare say anything beyond that or risk treading into dangerous waters.

“So am I,” her mother agreed quietly. “He’s a considerate boy with firm parents.”

The bedchamber fell into a calm silence and Sansa took the opportunity to think, because one way or another the future was going to be different. Naturally, it was going to be different regardless since she would do her best to stop a second coming of The Waste of Westeros; but something so close to her life's beginning in this time held open the door to countless other consequential changes. She just didn’t know what.

_How will Baelish use or benefit from these events?_

A quiet opening of the bedchamber door drew her attention and it was her father coming in. Mother looked up to Father’s eyes. “Sansa, I thought you’d be here,” he said, coming to sit on the mattress beside Mother. “If all is well I’d appreciate a private word with your mother.”

“Of course, Father. I love you, Mother.”

Mother looked at her. “And I, sweetling.”

Rising from the stool and giving Mother a peck on the cheek, Sansa took her leave to retrieve her riding gloves and was soon on her grey mare out on the open ground outside Riverrun, where the peace removed her sense of time and her mind flowed with numerous thoughts.

On a crest where her horse was nibbling on fresh grass, Sansa fought hot tears running down her cheeks while knowledge ate away at her composure. In the past, Mother died in childbed with this babe and she didn’t know if her efforts over the past moon and a half would make a difference. With a heart so gentle as Mother, Sansa couldn’t understand why such a fate had to be cruel to Minisa Tully last time. It was not uncommon for a mother to die in childbed but the thought of it for the mother she loved tore her heart to pieces.

_Gods, please have mercy for my mother with this babe. If…if you can’t…If…if_

Hooves were thundering towards her. “Sansa!”

Snapping out of her prayer, she turned in the direction of the voice and Oberyn was galloping towards her holding the reins of an unsaddled horse.

“Your mother,” he said, but faltered upon looking at her. “It’s time.”

Sansa needed no further words and spurred her horse the short distance to Riverrun, crossing the bridge at a canter where she came to a hard stop and handed over the reins. Through the halls she ran at the sound of screaming, abandoning her gloves on a random table, and entered the chamber reserved for childbed where she joined the other women and Maester Kym.

She’d been present for Rickon, so none of what she will witness will be anything new to her. It was evident, however, there was nothing for her to assist with; she was a child after all. Turning to Mother and taking a seat, the middle daughter laced her fingers with those of her mother’s to give what support she could. Strangely, Lysa was absent, however, on the other side of the mattress Catelyn was doing the same as her.

“I was here for Edmure’s,” Catelyn told her factually, turning her gaze to her. “It’s best to stay seated, Sansa,” she said, seeming to force out Sansa's name.

Her name had been forced, but she was dumbstruck by Catelyn's sudden turnaround. There had been no thawing between them like the slow one between Lysa and Sansa now, and Lysa still disliked her.

_Catelyn probably still hates me. I wish she didn't...  
_

Mother’s eyes were drawn to the sight of them either side of her. “My girls…”

Whatever she was going to say went unfinished; she cried out in pain.

The grip on Sansa’s hand was too gentle for this so she hardened hers and rubbed Mother’s arm with her unlaced fingers. “Don’t worry about my hand, Mother. I know,” she reassured and felt the grip tighten in response. “That’s it. Focus on the babe.”

There was little she could do in the busy childbed chamber, but that didn’t matter as her heart wanted to be beside Mother. Between the contractions, Sansa murmured sweet nothings into her ear, but the timing between them were notably shortening.

Using a cool linen, Sansa gently ran it across Mother’s forehead and prayed once more silently. To worry her mother with her thoughts would only increase the stress Mother was already under.

She could have had tears, but she kept them in.

She could have been sobbing, but she kept it in.

She could have been incoherent, but she kept it in.

Over and over, Sansa spotted Maester Kym’s concern and didn’t know if he been like this during Edmure’s nameday. Across their mother, Catelyn was more focused on composure and Mother than the maester.

The words of the other women were unheard by Sansa as she thumbed the back of Mother’s palm, who's glance was warming Sansa before the pain took Mother once again.

Looking towards the sheets, Sansa wasn’t sure if there had been that much blood when Catelyn Stark gave life to Rickon. From the behaviour of the other people in the chamber, it was clear something was wrong.

_What caused Mother’s death last time?_

She didn’t know and that's terrified her; to no one else’s knowledge. Giving cause for Mother to worry was among the last things she desired, so she kept it in.

She didn't want to lose another mother. The only mother she will ever have now.

Taking a moment to rest her unlaced hand, Sansa's fingers brushed against her concealed pocket. The shape of what was inside caused her to snapped her gaze towards the blood on the sheets before looking at her wrist.

_Could it work that way?_

_Would it?_

_Should I try?_

Maester Kym’s next words made the decision for her. “There’s too much blood,” he told one of the women. “Retrieve clean bed linen.”

Swallowing her nerves, Sansa asked Catelyn to retrieve fresh, cold water from the kitchens. Catelyn left silently as she carried the lukewarm water away.

Keeping herself discreet, while the women and Maester Kim were at the other end of the bed, Sansa slowly returned her gaze to Mother while her spare hand took the vial from her pocket; her thumbnail removing the cork. The sound of it hitting the ground was muffled by Mother’s pain.

Holding the vial between her knees, Sansa inhaled nervously and silently took the small metal goblet from the bedside table; glancing at the others before she laced the water.

Without a word, she gave it to Mother with uncertainty gnawing at her conscience. The woman was too far distracted to question what she’d been given.

_If this kills Mother, I’ll never forgive myself._

_I’d be a monster._

She put the goblet down and the vial in her pocket with no one the wiser of what she had just done. Rubbing Mother’s hand, Sansa had to take a breath when Mother was urged to push again.

Sansa remained by Mother’s side and pray to all the gods there could possibly be that Mother would survive this. This caring lady may not have given Sansa life, but Mother’s heart made Sansa feel as though life had meaning again; a home where her heart treasured people once more.

Wrapping her fingers with Mother’s, Sansa cupped it with the other and held it under her chin; saying a silent prayer with her eyes closed.

Over and over.

Her eyes moist.

Her hearing deaf.

The cry of a babe pierced the air.

Sansa’s eyes shot open and met Catelyn’s.

“A hale and healthy son, my Lady Tully.”

Sansa couldn’t believe it and her breathing calmed down from a pace unknown. Tears streamed down her face in joy as the maester held the babe still while a woman gently wiped him clean and wrapped the tiny boy warmly in linens.

_He’s alive. My brother. Oh Gods, he survived. He survived._

“Mother…he’s beautiful,” she said with a watery smile. Catelyn bringing the babe near Mother for her to hold.

Mother’s expression remained painful and she shook her head at her eldest daughter. “Your father, Catelyn,” her mother instructed, and Cat obeyed carrying the babe from the chamber.

The grip on Sansa's hand tightened once more.

_What? No one said anything about this._

Mother’s scream rented the air once more.

_Mayhaps the babe died inside her before…_

Sansa, with one hand, moved the brown locks away from Mother’s neck and did what she could to cool it down.

She thought it had been over and Mother survived childbed, but now there was another.

She thought she could stop worrying about it.

She thought it had meant all was alright.

The second child came into the world a few minutes later but it had felt like years.

“Another hale and healthy son, my Lady Tully,” said the maester.

Shuddering in an attempt to control her sob of relief, Sansa watched on as they prepared the babe just as they had with the first. She turned to Mother when the hand Sansa once held reached her cheek. “Sweetling…thank you,” she said tiredly.

“Whatever it takes,” she replied teary-eyed, hand cupping the face of her living mother.

Minisa smiled up at her. “Go get your father, Sansa.”

Unable to hold it in anymore, Sansa embraced her mother with a gentle embrace and kissed her cheek as she shook with relief. “You lived. You lived, Mother. You lived.”

“Such a heart,” Mother commented, giving a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Get your father for me.”

Pulling herself away from Mother and nodding like a fool, Sansa left the childbed chamber and found Father cradling the first newborn. He looked up at the sound of steps. “Sansa?”

“Another boy, Father,” she told him unashamed about her tears. “Mother’s asking for you.”

Bringing her hands to her mouth while Father passed her, Sansa wiped her eyes as the tears ran freely.

They were alive and Mother was alive.

She glanced over where Catelyn and Lysa were seated nearby. Taking tentative steps and joining them, she quietly seated herself next to her sisters. Catelyn spoke up. “You acted as though she is your own mother.” Not intent on getting into a verbal spar with Catelyn, Sansa ignored the jab and rested her head against the wall. “Don’t think being present changed anything.”

_Father or Uncle will tire of her nonsense eventually._

Disgusted by the ridiculous behaviour, Sansa looked away from Catelyn and her fingers touched the vial she’d carried with her since the cut to her wrist in the yard.

 

_“A sip is often enough.”_

 

But that had been about her wrist. With Mother, she had taken a risk on near-pure impulse. Thumbing the empty vial within her pocket, Sansa thought about everything she could remember about Oberyn and his behaviour. He left the day he’d arrived here the first time; the library and his list. He’d later eyed Mother when she was in the hall with Sansa. He went to Lannisport, a place said to sell all kinds of goods. The galloping towards Riverrun three days ago.

_I don’t believe in coincidences. For what reason would he return to Riverrun if his ship is sailing from Sunspear to Lannisport? He has no reason to ride east, thus no need for passage through Riverrun._

Whatever the case mayhaps be, the outcome resulted in Mother’s survival and that of not one but two babes. It was more than she could have asked for.

Closing her eyes, Sansa let her mind drift to a life that was now beyond her. The play between her siblings in Winterfell while she watched on being groomed to become the lady of a great house. Not letting that fact colour her thoughts, Sansa remembered the way that Rickon was a little terror when he didn’t want to bathe.

Bran’s persistence to climb over Winterfell.

Arya, forever desiring to learn swordsmanship and to ride in tourneys, finding activities such as needlework and dance distasteful.

Robb, who was trained beside Jon by Ser Rodrick, treated Jon like a genuine sibling, loved his family and was devoted to justice and honour.

Jon, a skilled swordsman and caring person who did everything he could to protect his family, even drugging his sisters so he could put them on a ship to Braavos.

Letting her memories of her Stark siblings and her love for each of them traverse her mind, Sansa grew melancholy at what once was; and hopefully, they would have a chance to live full lives this time. Something told Sansa that she would never be a part of it and that this family was the only girlhood that she will experience now.

But was it really a girlhood when she was already stripped of innocence?

Sansa knew the world for what it was.

Looking up at the sound of women leaving the chamber, Sansa rose to her feet wanting to enter. However, the maester closed the door from within, thus leaving the girls out in the hall. Wondering over to the window and looked down into the hollowed centre of Riverrun, she gently opened the window and leaned against the sill.

Exhaling as she rested with the breeze on her face, Sansa felt the tension from all of her fretting melt away. She had Mother and now two younger brothers to add to the family.

The hairs on her neck rose, alerting Sansa to someone nearby. Without changing her position, she focused on her peripheral vision and noticed that Catelyn was being ushered into the chamber by Maester Kym. Lysa and herself were left in the hall, for the time being, Sansa assumed. It was most likely that they were being shown their brothers one at a time, so as not to disturb or upset the babes with the presence of too many people.

Walking over to the empty seat next to Lysa, she sat down and lightly kneaded her hands together while silence continued to fill the air. Eventually, she turned to Lysa. “Did they do this with Edmure?” she asked, garnering a look of confusion from Lysa. “One sister at a time?” Sansa specified.

Lysa’s eyes darted to the door for a moment and she leaned towards Sansa. “Yes. Mother was very weak from childbed with Edmure,” Lysa said with her voice low. She didn’t sound worried about Mother the same way Sansa felt. Mayhaps her absence during childbed was the reason why.

Sansa was nervous and couldn’t help it. She had lost so many people that she loved and wanted to know for certain that Mother was going to pull through this. Unlike most instances where she had a grasp of her emotions, Sansa had to get to her feet and walk.

Taking a turn to avoid disturbing those within the closed chambers, Sansa hadn’t watched where she was going and nearly walked into Oberyn; hadn’t it been for his reflexes and grip. “I apologise, Oberyn, for not watching my step.”

“You worry about your family. It is only natural,” he excused her. Lifting her chin he made their eyes meet. “Why do you worry?”

“I remember Arya,” Sansa began trying to rein her concern back in. “It was not childbed that took Arya, but Arya was all I had once. Now I have Mother and I love her,” she explained to give him context. “Two hale and healthy babes, but I heard Maester Kym’s concerns,” Sansa shared with one of the few she trusted. She had to voice her thoughts. “What if he’s right? What if I lose my mother?”

She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and he removed the finger from under her chin. “The past was unkind to you. Mayhaps the gods will be kinder today,” the prince suggested, offering the crook of his elbow.

Placing her hand on his arm, she let him lead her at a sedated pace back the way she’d come from. There was nothing for her to say because she had already spoken it all. The scepticism was persistent within her mind, which was so used to matters going wrong for her and her family.

When she reached the hall of the childbed chamber, Sansa saw Uncle Brynden leading Lysa out of the chamber and in the direction of her chambers; Cat nowhere to be seen. Uncle Brynden spotted her and held the door open. Glancing to Oberyn in silent thanks, Sansa approached and entered the chamber alone.

Inside was Mother laying on the bed where Sansa had last seen her, her sons together in a broad bassinette at the end of the bed. Sitting next to Mother was Father, who held her hand with a soft grip. In the corner and watching the scene was Maester Kym.

Coming closer, Sansa looked at the two babes and traced the cheek of each of them. Tully hair and faces with the high Whent cheekbones. “What are their names?” Sansa spoke softly.

“Oswell, the eldest twin,” Father replied, gesturing to the babe on the right. “Joseth; the youngest. Your brothers.”

Giving the hair of the babes a whisper of a touch, Sansa felt her face soften as she watched them sleep peacefully and looking healthy as Rickon had on his nameday.

“Sansa,” Mother said quietly, drawing her attention. Taking the remaining stool, Sansa took Mother’s hand in her own and held it to her chest. “You’ve done so much for this family.”

Sansa's throat constricted. It sounded like Mother was saying goodbye.

Blinking back tears and licking her lips, Sansa’s eyes landed on a small bowl with four pinches of a grain she recognised from experience in the Eyrie.

"No..." Her eyes went to Father and he stared back at her sadly. Eventually, she had to break the silence. “Why? Father, this can’t be true. Please,” she begged him with a whisper, her heart was breaking from the implication from the Sweetsleep by Mother’s bed. “Why the Sweetsleep?”

Mother glanced at Father and they both looked surprised. Mother touched Sansa’s knee as she looked at her. “Clever girl…Lysa and Cat don’t know what’s happening, but we had some time together.”

Mother nodded consent to something and Father turned to face Sansa.

Father looked down for a moment and met her eyes a few seconds later. “She slowly bleeds, Sansa,” he told her softly. “Maester Kym does not know how your mother is still amongst us. If she suffers and wants rest, this is the gentlest way for her.”

Meeting her mother’s eyes, Sansa didn’t utter a word of what she’d done. It was too much of a risk. Mother, though, had a thankful look in her eye and cupped her cheek, running her thumb gently along it. “Sansa, I know how much you feared this.”

It was like a blow to the heart.

From the corner of her eyes, tears run down her cheeks. “I know what is happening… I understand. I do.” Sansa swallowed and fought off the sobs threatening to overtake her. “I love you, Mother. I-I-I I know, but I wish there was something I could do.”

Mother’s hand on Sansa’s cheek gently pulled the girl close against her chest. “We have time, Sansa,” she told her, kissing Sansa’s forehead. “Sweetling, I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she promised weakly. “Anything, Mother.”

Mother tilted Sansa’s head so their eyes met. “Every day, I wish you go for a ride and remember our happy moments.” She brushed some loose hairs out of Sansa’s face. “Those are the memories that matter.”

Sansa brought a hand to her mouth and nodded with watery eyes, dropping the hand while straightening to sit properly. “I give you my word,” Sansa swore with all her heart. “Every day I can.”

“I know you will,” Mother whispered. “Not once did you disappoint me or your father, Sansa.” Her mother turned to Father. “Hoster, you know which one.”

He nodded silently, squeezed Sansa’s shoulder, and left the room without a word.

When the door was closed, Sansa tuned back to her mother. “Mother?” she spoke in question.

“You will always have a place among the Tullys, Sansa. For you are a Tully,” her mother told her firmly, but tired. “It was to be for your nameday, but I want you to have it.”

From the stool, Sansa’s shoulders shook. She didn’t know what the gift was but she had an idea. “You’ve known me for less than two moons and you took me into your heart,” she struggled to say. “So quickly, Mother.”

Mother smiled and held Sansa’s hand on her stomach. “I’m glad I did, sweet girl.” Sansa felt unbid tears fall. “Sansa, bring me Oswell and Joseth.”

So she did. First Oswell then Joseth with a gentle hold. Mother looked happy once her babes were rested upon her; the sleeping babes secure by Mother’s arms.

“Maester Kym said it was a near thing,” Mother remarked, eyes on her sons. She turned her gaze to Sansa. “These babes, your brothers, have much to thank you for.” Sansa’s eyes widened and Mother smiled at her. “No one knows. And your brothers wouldn’t be here without you,” she said in a whisper. “I almost didn’t have the strength.”

Her cheeks flushed, Sansa looked to Mother’s eyes and the weak light within them. “I wish you could stay.”

“But you know I can’t, sweetling,” her mother said. “Oswell. Joseth,” she said, nodding towards the babes followed by a few moments of silence. “Return them to the bassinette, my girl.” Mother kissed each of them on the forehead, and Sansa placed them in the bassinette. Father entered silently, carrying a small sealed bag and lightly clasped a necklace on Sansa.

 _Sansa Tully_ , the pendant said.

“Sansa,” Mother said quietly. “Here or with the gods, you will always be my daughter, Sansa Tully.” Sansa swallowed heavily and took Mother’s hand in her own. “You’re growing into a beautiful elegant lady that I am proud of. You have inner strength and can withstand anything. You will prevail in all you do, my Sansa, I have no doubts. You are my daughter and I love you.”

“I love you too, Mother,” Sansa replies quietly, taking Mother’s hand to her lips. With teary eyes she met Mother’s “But how do I withstand this?.”

“In time, sweetling. I love you, my girl,” she said softly. “Be strong,” Mother urged. “Give me a hug and go to the hall.” Sansa struggled to breathe. “You can do it.”

Too choked up to say anything, Sansa kissed Mother on the cheek and embraced her while burying her face into Mother’s neck, who stroked her hair softly. Taking a breath, she sat up on the stool and held Mother’s hand close once more and swallowed. Breath shaky, Sansa rose from the stool and walked to the door.

She had to see her once more. Turning around, Sansa met Mother’s eyes and bit down on her lip while her body shook and tears fell.

“G-goodbye, Mother.”

“Goodbye, my Sansa.”

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment and nodded to Mother for a final time. Muffling a sob, she walked through the door and closed it behind her.

The woman who had become Mother to Sansa, genuinely loved her, and Sansa loved in return, was gone.

In her bedchamber, she dropped onto her bed and sobbed into the sheets.

 

SANSA STARK

_Day 6, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

The breaking of fast the following morning was a sombre affair in the Dining Hall; barely a word spoken between the grieving family all donned in black.

The silence was broken by the maester entering the hall. “My Lord Tully? A wheelhouse approaches Riverrun,” he informed Father quietly

“Thank you, Maester Kym,” Father replied as though he’d been expecting it. He turned to Sansa. “Sansa, you’re quite composed, could you greet our guests?”

Without saying a word, Sansa rose from the table and gave him a nod, soon after departing the hall.

The whole castle was silent. Every banner and flag was changed over to a plain black. Walking the halls with her pain concealed, Sansa made her way to the eastern bridge but there was no wheelhouse or riders in sight; she’d anticipated the Starks.

She took a turn for the western bridge and wondered who Father was expecting.


	10. Welcome to Riverrun

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 10, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

Sitting inside the Lannister wheelhouse, Jaime stared out the window hoping to catch a glance of the castle they were visiting. The only places he knew were Casterly Rock and Lannisport; King’s Landing once when he was six, but it had been a visit cut short when Father was angry with King Aerys for some reason.

Stirring in his seat and fiddling with the windowsill, Jaime grew restless from the lack of anything interesting.

“Jaime, sit still,” Aunt Genna told him while holding Tyrion in her lap. “There’s still a way to go. I’d say an hour.”

A little irritated that he could have been there already had Uncle Kevan let him ride ahead, Jaime rested his elbow on the sill and stared out the window.

He’d been travelling inside this wheelhouse for two sennights and not once mounting a horse, despite how much he pleaded Uncle Kevan to let him ride. Being still and not doing anything went against Jaime’s very nature, which grated on not just his patience but also the nerves of Cersei and Aunt Genna.

Since the letters from the unknown girl, Jaime had reluctantly come to realise that Cersei didn’t think about Jamie the same way he did about her. Their mother had died two years ago and without Father showing any warmth towards him, Jaime had turned to Cersei in his search for it. She’s provided it but used it against him.

Manipulated him.

Being forced to admit to himself that Cersei was using his desire for affection as a way to get what she wanted had really affected how much he trusted her these days.

With the trust weakened and his eyes now more open, Jaime witnessed and knew the truth of what Cersei was like. He was no longer like a person deep in their cups with blurred vision.

And being stuck in a wheelhouse with that very person constantly complaining about some girl out of jealousy was maddening. Nowadays, Cersei was merely someone who shared the Lannister name and tormented his little brother when the opportunity arose.

The sound of a singing crowd, who wasn’t bad to listen to, pulled him from his musings and after a moment Jaime realised the voices were coming from inside a Riverside tavern.

But the song was something he hadn’t heard before.

 

“A trout of ten,

Swam home again,

And people talked of her since then.”

 

“They say that she is beauty.

They say that she is grace.

Don’t say it near a lion’s face.”

 

Jaime’s eyes darted to Cersei, and if looks could kill...well the minstrel and company would be dead twice over already. Out of the curiosity, he continued to listen as people could be heard clapping in time to the words.

 

“Knock on the lion’s door,

You’ll hear her roar,

The Westeros beauty she is no more.

 

“Sansa cares for the people.

She’s kind and never shouts.

But look out,

A lion‘s about.

Cersei oh hates the Tully trout.”

 

“He was entranced by Sansa’s beauty.

He was entranced by Sansa’s grace.

Petyr stole a kiss,

And he did not miss.

From Riverrun he was dis–“

 

The clapping and song stopped abruptly; someone inside probably spotted the Lannister retinue.

Jaime coughed to smother his laughter. A few moons ago he wouldn’t have been so amused.

Mad, actually.

Cersei was shaking with fury. Her face was red; as red as a Lannister banner. When her narrowed eyes landed on him, Jaime shuddered in memory of just how the mere talk by Casterly Rock smallfolk riled her up. She’d become rather aggressive towards them of late if they talked about Sansa Tully in awe.

There had to have been more to the song, but mayhaps it was best no one continued it. With a Lannister retinue passing by Riverside, the minstrel probably feared a reaction; his lip quirked when he wondered what the rest of it was. The thought of what he had heard made him snigger; Cersei had earnt that song.

Cersei looked ready to slap him. “It’s _not_ funny, Jaime,” she snapped at him. “They’re mocking us!” His sister spun to face their aunt. “Stop the wheelhouse and get that minstrel. He shan’t sing again!” she demanded from her, but the portly woman wasn’t fazed in the least.

Aunt Genna gave his sister a glare and relaxed against the cushions. “They’re mocking your disgraceful behaviour in Lannisport, Cersei,” she told his sister sternly, who was hardly cowed. “You embarrassed House Lannister. As for the singer, the song will be all over Westeros soon if it isn’t already.”

Not looking contrite, his twin stared back at their aunt. “Why are we going to Riverrun?” Cersei complained bitterly. “It’s a waste of time.”

The expression she got back was one of displeasure. “You’re to become the queen one day, Cersei. This attitude will keep you far from being as successful as your father.” That got Cersei’s attention to listen well; anything referring to matching Father’s achievements always did. “A beneficial trade agreement requires respect, and depending on ravens entirely is rude when you’re nearby. Be unnecessarily rude and your gains will be less than they could be.”

To Jaime it seemed like a weak excuse to bring him, Tyrion and Cersei along. However, he was happy to have the chance to explore Westeros beyond the restrictions of Casterly Rock and Lannisport imposed by Father. The heir wanted to know what the kingdoms were like.

_If only I was on a horse._

Uncle Kevan was mounted and out in front of the wheelhouse with Lannister men, to represent their house since Father was away in the capital again.

Prior to the family departing Casterly Rock two sennights ago, Jaime had attempted to sway his uncle into permitting him to ride a horse instead; since he knew that sitting inside a box for so long would likely make him go mad. Thankfully, the time spent to get this far was less than he expected.

The retinue had spare horses, which the driver of the wheelhouse switched with the horses he was using every few hours; this enabled the travelling party to maintain a generous speed instead of stopping every so often to rest the horses.

Glancing at bitter Cersei, Jaime remembered her reaction to finding the letter about protecting Tyrion he’d received from the unknown girl. It had been quite the spectacle when she got her hands on it. Unlike the rest, Jaime had forgotten to burn that one. Had Cersei found the one about next year’s tourney…

Jaime shivered.

He did not want to imagine it.

Cersei had found the letter about Tyrion in his bedchambers and demanded to know why a girl she didn’t know about was writing to him. She’d accused him of betraying family secrets to another house and had all but rained fire down on him until he had resorted to shouting at her that he didn’t know who it was. Afterwards, he burned that letter when she left his chambers.

Ever since she’s drawn the correct assumption she no longer controlled him, Cersei had grown frosty and demanding; often to no avail.

Then there was the incident of a rumour going around, in which Lord Tully had hidden away the most beautiful daughter of their generation until the age of ten. Cersei had raged at any of the smallfolk that talked about Sansa Tully’s alleged beauty with admiration. So much so that Father put his foot down after she’d taken her jealousy too far in Lannisport, and embarrassing the family name.

After seeing such displays from his twin, Jaime was glad that the unnamed writer had never left a clue of who they were. It was no secret that Father didn’t care about Tyrion the same way he did for his twins, so the letter Cersei found wouldn’t have mattered to Father; Cersei’s wild rage about the writer, on the other hand, was bothering.

_How will she be a good queen if she screams each time something doesn’t go her way?_

Mayhaps it had been for the best that the girl had stopped entirely. She hadn’t written another letter in a moon and a half.

When Jaime heard the sound of the wheels on wood, he gave a start and looked through the windows expecting to see Tully banners decorating the castle. However, any banners, flags or other decorations were plain blacks.

“Aunt Genna?” he asked, looking to the large woman. “Why are there no Tully banners? It’s just black. This is Riverrun, isn’t it?”

She glanced out the window and nodded at the sight. “A death in the Tully family, Jaime. It’s a custom here when a member dies.”

“Oh.” He remembered when his mother died; a boy of seven at the time and only two years ago.

Cersei, on the other hand, wasn’t as sympathetic towards the Tullys. “I hope it was that Sansa wench.”

“Cersei Lannister!” their aunt barked out, either at her end or determined to straighten his sister out at the last minute. “This is unbecoming of you. I won’t have you embarrass us again.”

Ignoring the drama between his aunt and sister, Jaime looked at Riverrun with the eye of a soldier and quickly deduced that anyone holding siege against the Tullys would depend on catapults and the like for the most part. The whole castle was only accessible by drawbridges and known to be surrounded by the wide waters of the Red Fork.

Upon the wheelhouse coming to a halt, they got out and saw a girl of ten waiting for them in front of the main doors

“Well,” Aunt Genna remarked to Cersei with mock sympathy for his sister. “If Lady Catelyn is not Hoster’s beauty, who is already a gorgeous girl, Lady Sansa will certainly be a girl to contend with once she’s a woman grown.”

Paying attention to a girl approaching them from the main entrance into the castle, Jaime did admit she was easy on the eye, however, he wondered whether she had the same temper and mind as Cersei.

Cersei was pretty too, but she was often angry or cruel when matters didn’t go her way; so he just watched his uncle.

Uncle Kevan stepped forward and met Lady Catelyn halfway. “Lady Catelyn,” he addressed with respect. “We offer our condolences to House Tully and apologies for arriving at such a time.”

After a curtsy the girl shook her head lightly. “You couldn’t have known, Ser Kevan,” she replied politely with a hint of sadness. “Lady Tully passed in the night in childbed; there is nothing to forgive.”

His aunt had always been a person who was of a sharp mind and joined his uncle’s side; Tyrion on her hip. “But the child survived? We pray it’s hale and healthy,” she wished respectfully.

Jaime mayhaps not be overly interested in the formalities in front of him, but he knew what his family expected of him. Glancing in Cersei’s direction, she could see she wasn’t of the same mind and paid near to no attention to the conversation in front of them.

“They are, Lady Genna. Twin boys,” Catelyn corrected her calmly. “And yes, they’re hale and healthy; Oswell and Joseth Tully.”

“Tarly,” Tyrion parroted, drawing the attention from all of them.

Jaime wasn’t sure how the Tully girl was going to respond to that, but it would tell him whether she was the same as Cersei, who’d have raged. He knew Tarly was a house in the Reach, but surely they’d see reason with it being so alike and coming from a two-year-old? Some part of Jaime expected a show of repulsion at the sight of his brother. Another part of him expected the mistake to be taken as ill favour.

_Or would she ignore him like most people do?_

Aunt Genna was giving the girl a daring look, but the redhead didn’t react to his aunt.

Instead, Catelyn had a humoured smile and took a step towards Tyrion. With a light grasped of his hand, she drew his attention to her. “Close, Tyrion, but not quite,” she forgave his brother kindly. “Tul…ly,” she pronounced slowly.

All the Lannisters were staring at the pair. Cersei, probably bored and disgusted. Aunt Genna, observing the girl in front of her. Uncle Kevan was surprised and looked ready to intervene.

“Tulllee.”

She just chuckled and released Tyrion’s hand. “Closed enough,” the girl accepted, smiling before turning to his uncle. The silent tension faded from where they stood. “He’s just a babe,” she excused, with a soft expression. “It’s hardly considered an insult, Ser Kevan, Lady Genna.” Turning and looking to each of them in turn, she gave a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Sansa Tully. Catelyn and I are much alike, so I understand the error,” Sansa said, giving them a ready escape for their earlier mistake.

_Well, at least she’s tolerant._

Aunt Genna nodded to Sansa. “Thank you, Lady Sansa, that’s quite forgiving of you.”

Their hostess half turned towards the door. “If you would like to follow me inside for bread and salt? Your chambers will be ready for you shortly.”

Beside him, Cersei huffed through her nose and eyes became angry.

_You can’t be serious, Cersei. She lost her mother less than a day ago, graciously receiving visitors who made a mistake, and didn’t give a wit about Tyrion’s interruption._

_I thought I’d seen the worst of you._

It must be about that song, he concluded, remembering the catchy verses that enraged her near Riverside. He stifled the laugh before it could reach Cersei’s ears and set her off again. He didn’t want to create humiliation for his family.

Not making a fuss or drawing attention to Cersei’s hate, Jaime followed behind his aunt and uncle as they were led through the castle to the dining hall where refreshments, bread and salt were distributed between House Lannister and Riverrun’s lord. Lord Tully looked grim but made an effort to ensure the Lannisters didn’t feel unwelcome given the circumstances.

Aunt Genna was the Lannister with a shrewder mind between her and Uncle Kevan easily let Aunt Genna take the lead. “Lord Tully, your daughter made us aware of the situation. We’d be willing to delay negotiations for a time if you wish?” she offered once they shared the bread and salt. “We’ll entertain ourselves in the meantime.”

“Lady Genna, Ser Kevan, such a gesture would be appreciated. Thank you,” the Lord of Riverrun accepted with evident gratitude. “Is a sennight agreeable?”

Uncle Kevan nodded. “More than agreeable, Lord Tully.” Jaime’s uncle was watching the lord carefully. Aunt Genna mayhaps had the better mind, but that was not to say his uncle lacked in wits either. “We anticipated a longer wait,” he admitted humbly from his seat beside Aunt Genna.

Lord Tully turned his hands outward towards the Lannisters. “Consider it an apology of sorts, Ser Kevan,” the widowed lord suggested. “You journeyed here to accelerate negotiations; not the opposite.”

After that, Jaime didn’t really listen to what was being said until the location of their chambers and who would be serving them during their stay was brought up. The servants leading them to the guest wing; his aunt and uncle’s bedchambers side by side; Cersei’s left of Aunt Genna’s and his right of Uncle Kevan’s.

It was an unusual arrangement, but then again, what would he know? Considering this was the second castle he ever seen that wasn’t Casterly Rock.

Venturing through the halls after the brief tour from his servant, Jaime went down to the yard when the flash of sunlight on metal caught his attention. Taking the necessary stairs and halls to be outside once more, he walked over and found a comfortable spot near what appeared to be the training area for arms.

Inside was a familiar looking Salty Dornishman, thrusting and spinning a partisan as if he’d been taught how since he could lift one.

It was that Martell who refused Father in Lannisport.

“I wouldn’t get any closer to Prince Oberyn when he’s training, Lord Jaime.”

Jaime startled and looked in the direction of the girl’s voice.

Dressed for riding, was Lady Sansa holding the reins while she stood in front of a grey mare. She gestured towards the fencing that separated the sparring area from the rest of it. “I thought to say something before you passed the fencing,” she told him when she tied her horse to a post.

“Uh, thanks, Lady Sansa,” he said, returning his attention to the practising prince. “So that’s the Red Viper?”

“Yes,” she said, coming to stand beside him and watch. “He helped bring me home two moons ago.”

“So it’s true?” he blurted out without thinking. Swallowing, now that she was meeting his eyes, he continued without being rude. “That you were raised in Harrenhal for ten years?”

Nodding, she gestured towards the stables where a saddled horse was being brought out. “Would you like to join me for a ride while I tell you about it, Lord Jaime?” Lady Sansa suggested with a knowing smile. “To my understanding, you were limited to the wheelhouse for your journey? I imagine a horse would make you feel at ease after such a time.”

_Gods, a horse. I was in that wheelhouse for two sennights._

_I’m riding that horse._

Nodding to Lady Sansa, he watched as she untied the mare and led the way. “Don’t call me ‘Lord Jaime’ if there are no adults around. I hear enough of it at Casterly Rock,” said Jaime, and he spotted the silent amusement in her face. “If I’m going to be called anything, it’s ‘Ser Jaime’ once I’m a knight.”

“A knight like your uncle?”

Jaime supposed he would be. Father was firm on Jaime’s future as the next Warden of the West; teaching him the running of the Westerlands. “Aye, like Uncle Kevan.” Mounting the chestnut once they reached the stables, he looked towards the eastern drawbridge. “For a while, anyway,” he muttered enough for her to hear.

“Succeeding your father doesn’t mean the end of being a knight, Jaime,” the girl told him patiently.

“Of course it does,” he objected, not understanding what she meant.

Once she was assisted into the saddle, she turned to him. “Ride with me and I’ll explain.”

She led the way through the eastern bridge and together they rode to a crest and stopped to look at Riverrun from the vantage point.

It was quite a sight, and wanting answers, Jaime glanced at Lady Sansa. “So, how could I be both?” he asked sceptically.

“I’d like you to think about something, Jaime,” she began with a gentle smile, her eyes were a little nervous. “How does your father manage the Westerlands and be Hand of the King simultaneously?”

Since Father was away most of the time, the answer came to him instantly. “Uncle Kevan helps when Father’s in King’s Landing.”

From the saddle, hands on the horn of it, she nodded absently as she stopped herself from fiddling with her necklace. “So he has someone take up the role of Lord Regent when he’s away?”

“Aye,” he said, doubtfully wondering how such a thing would be possible for him, “but I don’t think he’d allow Tyrion to help me.” Jaime sighed sadly when he uttered that truth. “Father hardly tolerates him as it is.”

“I feel sorry for Tyrion, he’s such a clever babe and I've only met him for a moment,” Lady Sansa said, fiddling with her necklace; the metal curved to spell her name. “Mother told me, even with my siblings, how she managed Riverrun in Father’s absence. So I imagine that a lady could do it when you’re being a knight in the Westerlands?”

It sounded possible, and he knew Father would foist the lady of a respected house upon him when he was of marrying age. The only girl around his age he knew was Cersei, and he didn’t want someone like that around him for the rest of his days.

Father always got what he wanted, so Jaime just hoped the chosen girl wasn’t like his twin.

Not in the mood to think about his family, Jaime spurred his horse eastward on River Road until he felt the blood rushing through his veins. He slowed the horse to a walk and the girl was at ease beside him.

“I don’t understand something,” he started slowly, biting his lip and exhaling when she looked his way with attention, slightly out of breath herself. “Why aren’t you hiding away like your sisters?”

He wasn’t going to outright ask why she wasn’t mourning her mother.

From atop her horse, Lady Sansa took off the necklace and stared at it, thumbing it. “It may not seem like it, but I am mourning Mother,” she murmured. Turning her head to face him, he could see the pain in her eyes for just a second and it disappeared again. “Some prefer being alone. Some scream until they can no more. Others do something that reminds them of their loved ones.”

Jaime wasn’t really a fan of crying girls; it normally included someone screaming at him, so he counted himself lucky. But there was a chance she might cry, so he was eager to get back to Riverrun when decency presented an opportunity. He wasn’t about to be rude; he’d already asked a sensitive question that upset her.

Taking a breath, he looked at the landscape around River Road instead of the girl so she could answer when ready. “Just before Mother died, she gave me this.” He turned her way and saw the name pendant in her palm. “Her last wish was I rode every day and remember the times we were happy together.”

“Why didn’t she give it to you before? She was your mother, wasn’t she?”

Her eyes were like ice but she didn’t say anything.

 _Gods, she is kind and never shouts. I was expecting to be yelled at by now._ He thought, remembering the words of one particular verse. One that inadvertently made him snigger.

_Oh, fuck._

Her eyes were narrowed; lips pursed at him. “One would believe you’d be sympathetic about such things, Lord Jaime.” She was clearly pissed but thankfully not going off like Cersei would have. “Seven sennights may not be a long time to you, but she was the mother I couldn’t see for ten years. Believe it or not, I did and still do love her.”

Hands by his sides in surrender, he swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you.” Jaime expected her to demand details but she never spoke. “I knew my mother for seven years and it still hurts,” he told her quietly, hoping that would keep her from going off.

“It will always hurt,” she muttered, looking at the pendant. Lifting her eyes, she met his again; expression controlled. “So what were you laughing at?”

Feeling like he’d dodged an arrow, Jaime thanked the gods for their mercy. “A tavern song about you and Cersei.” She looked at him in confusion but also something else. “It was being sung in Riverside.”

“The relation escapes me.”

Relaxing a little, he loosened his tight grip on the reins. “It would be easier if I just said the words that matter most.” Lady Sansa just nodded and he took that for permission.

 

“Sansa cares for the people.

She’s kind and never shouts.

But look out,

A lion‘s about.

Cersei oh hates the Tully trout.”

 

Glancing away for a minute there was silence between them until the girl beside him broke it. “Who in their right mind would someone sing that? Let alone with a Lannister retinue travelling by?” she questioned in bewilderment. “First rumours about me and now a song? At least it explains Lady Cersei’s glare.”

He looked at her. “You didn’t know about it?”

She shook her head. “No. I imagine there are more words, but pray tell they didn’t mock your sister? I heard about Lannisport.” Jaime half laughed and nodded, which made her groan in exasperation. He just laughed again. “Pray forgive me, but why do you laugh? I’d think you’d be furious.”

Jaime just sniggered. “Let’s say I’m not too bothered with what Cersei thinks.”

Lady Sansa had a quizzical look about her but didn’t ask him about it. “I can honestly say I wouldn’t expect that from a twin.”

“We have our differences,” he said neutrally not wanting to get into why he cared less than he mayhaps should about his sister.

“Don’t we all?” she muttered, glancing back towards Riverrun. “Come,” Lady Sansa said in a better mood, hands on the reins. “Shall we race back?”

There was no way he wasn’t going to. Cooped up in the wheelhouse for so long left him so bored that he could probably ride a horse for a sennight and not tire of the idea.

If he had to wager, there was quite a distance back to Riverrun. There was also the fact of a funeral sooner or later.

_Mayhaps I should go as an apology. I was a bit of an arse. As a Lannister, Aunt Genna would have my ear if I didn’t go._

“Alright,” he agreed, eager to feel the speed of the horse. “Lady Sansa?” he addressed and she paused in her saddle. “Would my family be welcome to your mother’s ceremony? I can’t make promises about Cersei, but everyone else would come; even me.”

Something from that seemed to douse any resentment she had for him. He got a small sad nod when she replied. “They would be,” Lady Sansa told him. “And thank you, Jaime. I’d appreciate you being there.”

Now notably happier, the girl looked at him after a moment, her reins gripped to race.

“On three?” he suggested, feeling his blood beginning to rush in anticipation. She nodded. “Three!”

“Hey!” she shouted from behind him and he laughed, but slowed the horse to a canter until she almost caught up. “That was hardly noble, Ser Jaime!” Lady Sansa hollered over the thundering of galloping hooves. Jaime snorted and had to focus on the path ahead.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw irritation change to strong determination. She disappeared from sight when her horse veered off, appearing beside him a few moments later. “Did you just cheat, my lady?” Lady Sansa just gave a look of innocence and he shook his head. “I suppose it’s fair.”

Riverrun was coming up fast and their horses flew down the hill, crossing the drawbridge at a thunder of hooves on wood, drawing the eyes of many.

“A tie?” he offered, both of them slowing the horses to a walk.

Like him, she was a little short on breath and was visibly recovering. “A tie,” she replied at the stables, surrendering the reins to a stable boy. “Thank you for accompanying me, Jamie. It was a pleasant ride,” she thanked him with a curtsy. “Even the cheating on both our parts,” she japed and took her leave towards the castle doors.

He knew she’d cheated.

Walking around the yard with a grin, Jaime heard the sound of swords and followed it until he found The Red Viper and The Blackfish sparring. Instead of using the partisan he was known to fight with, The Red Viper was armed with a sword much like Blackfish.

Watching on from behind the fencing, Jaime observed their different styles and what the strengths of each were; speed against power, light armour against plate armour like he trained in.

Deep interest in the two men before him Jaime hadn’t realised he had company. “What were you doing with that Tully?” Cersei demanded to know.

“What do you think I was doing? I thought it would be obvious,” he retorted lightly, trying to brush her off.

He was grabbed by the shoulder and forced to face Cersei. “I know what she’s doing. You should have been by my side, not hers!”

“There’s nothing wrong with a friendly ride,” he defended. What was the big crime of joining your host when they offer something innocent that you like? “Besides,” he continued. “Surely you remember how boring I find the wheelhouse?”

“Clearly,” she snapped at him. “Your highlight was the thrice-damned song about that little tart.”

“Be reasonable, Cersei.” Jaime shook his head, disbelieving. “It was just a ride, it’s not like it matters, so why are you so bothered by something like horseback?” He was walking away when a thought came to him and Jaime looked for Tyrion in the yard. It took him a moment to consider he would be in the nursery shared with the Tully heir; Edmure.

Returning to his chamber, Jaime requested a bath so he could wash off the smell of horse before the funeral. Aunt Genna had taught them many things about lords, ladies and queens. Most, admittedly, had gone ignored until their aunt pulled his ear and scolded Cersei prior to an important feast or ceremony at Casterly Rock.

He doubted Aunt Genna would tolerate him coming to the funeral smelling of horse, she’d set him straight immediately if she knew about it.

The Tullys would take it as an insult as well.

In the meantime, Jaime looked for his little brother and indeed found him in the nursery for the older children; to his understanding, the twins were kept in a separate one with guards by the door; something to do with protecting them from outdoor diseases during their first moon.

Entering the room, the lion little greeted him happily. “Jaime is happy.” Jaime picked him up and Tyrion pulled a face. “Horse stink.”

“Really?” he replied, pretending not to know. “Do I stink of horse, little brother?”

“Aye,” his brother said with certainty. “Jaime stinks.”

Grinning at Tyrion’s look of disgust, Jaime decided to be merciful and put him back on the floor. “Cersei left you alone?” he asked.

It was something he always asked about these days. He couldn’t be around Tyrion all the time and do everything else at once.

“Sister no come,” the toddler answered happily. “Sansa Tulllee come.”

This got his attention; anyone visiting his brother in Casterly Rock was a rare thing. “Nice or bad?”

“Nice lady.”

_Good. She treated him kindly when we arrived, but I wasn’t sure if it was to gain favour with my aunt and uncle._

“She horse stink too.”

Jaime burst out laughing at that.

He glanced at the youngest boy in the room and saw that Edmure was listening. “Did you have fun?” he asked, hoping his brother wasn’t alone because of the way he looked.

“Tyrion had fun.”

It was a relief to hear and Jaime ruffled Tyrion’s hair briefly. “I’ll see you later, little brother.” Rising to his feet, Jaime left the nursery and returned to his chambers where he found the welcome sight of a steaming bath.

Cersei inviting herself into his tub was a rare occurrence nowadays, but every now and again she would do it to try and wheedle a favour out of him. Depending on what it was and if he wanted to do it. However, it seemed that his bath today was going to be interrupted by her because he saw her enter his chambers without pause and stripped down to join him.

Really not in the mood for it, Jaime got to the point. “What could you want, Cersei? We just got here and the funeral is soon.”

His brusque question didn’t please her; not that he cared whether or not it did.

“Less than a day and you’re interested in that wench?” she assumed bitterly.

He huffed at her. “If that’s all you’re here to talk about then get out, Cersei,” he said bluntly. “And Sansa Tully? We talked about her dead mother on that ride. Happy?” He really wasn’t in the mood for Cersei’s jealousy towards a girl that hadn’t done anything wrong that he knew of.  

The rest of his bath was peaceful once Cersei dressed and stormed out of the room. Without the sister that was a regular pain in his side in some way, he finished bathing and made his way down to the dining hall where the rest of his family was gathered and dressed. None of them had come expecting a funeral so all of their clothes were red, gold or brown.

Once the Tullys made their appearance, they led the way to the river where the ceremony would be carried out.


	11. Farewell Sweet Wife

HOSTER TULLY

_Day 10, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

The air around the open chamber was silent, and laid in a boat filled with firewood and kindling, was his wife who looked at peace; a large Tully flag covering her body. Alone and kneeling on the stone floor beside the floating boat, Hoster looked to his sweet wife and cupped her cheek as he gazed at her face for what would be the last time. All the time they’d been blessed with in her final hours was too short, no matter how late into the night she’d remained with him in this world.

Minisa had always been a sweet woman granted both wits and beauty; her character brightened his days when she was by his side. The love and support his wife never failed to give him had made him feel lighter when forced to make difficult decisions.

The impact of her first two children not surviving infancy affected Minisa in such a way he’d feared the grief would weaken her, but sweet Minisa mourned each babe as a mother would without letting it destroy her. She was a woman who loved her children; no matter whether they were a boy or girl, she’d loved them equally. Minisa’s heart had been such a gentle one that he felt he hadn’t deserved it, but their marriage had been a stronger because of it.

She bore him five hale and healthy children out of love despite the knowledge of the high risk she would be in. He’d seen how much being with a child affected her, and after seeing Catelyn’s good health he’d been more than ready to stop trying for a son if it meant Minisa would be safe. She’d meant too much to him for the sake of having a son. Catelyn would be his heir. Minisa had been overjoyed and cherished their child; raising Catelyn by her own hand and no nursemaid in sight for she fed Catelyn at her own breast. They raised her together as much as they could and he treasured the happiness their child brought Minisa.

However, Minisa’s want of a large family did not change when he told her their daughter would be Riverrun’s heir; she wanted more children and reluctantly he didn’t deny her.

Determined to ensure the best health for his wife, he sought help from the maester who advised time between any further children so Minisa’s body wouldn’t suffer a strain. Food was fresher, Riverrun kept additionally cleaner, and ill servants were to return once their ailments abated. Anything that would help her, Hoster ensured was provided or carried out.

Two years later Lysa was brought into the world as a healthy babe, and again he was prepared to stop there. However, the determination of his wife for babes remained strong, but, out of concern, he told her to wait before conceiving another child.

Unexpectedly, she’d agreed after looking at him with a knowing expression and eight years later Edmure was another hale and healthy babe. He’d seen the way the survival of Edmure appeared to lift a weight from her shoulders; mayhaps finally giving her husband a living son made her feel more worthy of being a wife, but son or daughter didn’t matter to him.

She mattered to him.

Soon after Edmure, Minisa was with child again but not by intent. When she carried Edmure, Minisa became prone to illnesses and the vulnerability did not leave her once their son left her body. It made him concerned for her when her belly swelled with child once more, and the evident struggle she experienced on a daily basis. He’d feared the worst and he had been right.

When they first discovered she carried a child again, he’d vehemently pursued to use moon tea with Minisa’s consent, but the maester told him aborting the child at this stage presented a danger much the same as carrying the child to the end. Upon learning this, she had begged him no matter what happens not to blame the child; to love and nurture it as he had done with their other three. And he told her she needn’t ask, for her child was a part of her and there was nothing of Minisa he couldn’t love.

After the second twin was given to him and Hoster was with his wife and newborn children, each of their daughters was sent into the chamber one at a time; unknowingly spending their last night with their mother.

The final girl to see Minisa, Sansa, was an exception.

From almost the moment she sat down beside Minisa she had deduced the truth of what was happening and pleaded to be told she was mistaken.

The girl was a walking mystery, and something in his mind was repeatedly telling him she was his the past two moons. However, he hadn’t acted upon this internal instinct and watched as Minisa did the opposite.

Minisa opened her heart to this girl, and by the Gods both of them blossomed with happiness like flowers given every care. The love between his wife and this Tully-Whent child had been near-palpable, and he was glad about accepting the girl into the house as a ward.

But Minisa, his sweet-hearted wife, asked that the girl be more than that.

To become as much their daughter as Catelyn and Lysa, and mean it in his heart when he called the girl ‘daughter’.

He watched and waited for a time with caution to see if the girl deserved such a title, but there was hardly a moment when her behaviour meant she would be a danger to his family.

Any final doubts were swept aside by the incident with the son of Lord Baelish. Lysa had treated the girl cruelly when it happened, but Sansa did nothing to her in response.

She was no danger.

So he commissioned a necklace for the girl’s nameday next year and showed Minisa.

His sweet wife…

When she saw it there’d been tears of joy in her eyes, and she told him he would never regret the decision. And he had yet to regret including Sansa as one his of daughters.

His wife may not have carried her like the others, but there was no denying how much Minisa loved her.

Leaning forward, Hoster gently placed a kiss on her forehead and untied the boat.

It was time.

Watching the water slowly pull the boat holding his sweet Minisa towards the middle of the river, Hoster bowed his head and took the stairs up to the ground-level of Riverrun and continued until he reached the highest of the castle battlements.

Waiting on the left were his children, all but the newborns, and his brother dress in muted clothing. To the right, at a respectful distance, were Oberyn Martell, the Lannisters and the household servants behind them. All of them in dark tones, except one. Turning his attention to the river, Hoster watched and waited until Minisa’s little boat came into view.

Accepting the bow from his brother, Hoster held an arrow coiled with oiled rope within the fire of a brazier until the arrow caught flame.

Once the boat was the right distance downriver, he nocks the arrow and watched the wind’s direction with a flag before he took aim.

Flying true, the arrow travelled in an arch and the boat was alight like a beacon in the night as it floated down the Red Fork.

Bowing his head for a moment, Hoster released a breath while he watched the flame as the boat travelled the length of the river until there was a bend and the boat out of sight.

He would never forget her.

Hoster felt a hand squeeze his shoulder briefly; Brynden giving him a nod when he glanced to his side. They had their differences but not here.

Staring out into the water from where he stood, memories of his life with her flittered across his mind while he barely noticed the sound of feet lightly walking away.

Against either side of him were Catelyn and Sansa, Lysa burrowing her head against his chest. Remaining there for a time, the Tullys mourned the woman that touched all their hearts.

Straightening himself up and rubbing the backs of his daughters, Hoster led them down to the dining hall where the midday meal was soon to be laid out for them and their guests. In the currently empty hall, the three girls made themselves a little presentable; all three had varying hints of red in their eyes, but it was remedied by a handmaid coming over and presenting them with spoons sitting in a bowl of chilled water.

Shortly after his daughters were finished doing their best, Catelyn and Sansa looking the most composed of the three, he took his seat in the hall and the girls followed suit where they waited for their guests. Brought into the dining hall by handmaids a few minutes later, the Lannisters and Prince Oberyn took their seats at the table when the final dish was placed on the table.

It was not a grandiose meal, but by the standards of the typical meal at Riverrun the food served to them had the evident taste of additional effort when being prepared. The group ate in silence out of respect for the loss of his wife and the mother of his children. Although there was silence, Hoster was not blind to the blatant boredom displayed by Cersei Lannister. Ser Kevan and Lady Genna, who had no relation or personal interest in the woman he loved, did not act in the same manner as their niece was; they showed decorum and regard for what had happened.

He spotted Lady Genna following his gaze before the woman became irate with the younger girl.

Hoster saw that the disrespect by Cersei Lannister was not lost on Sansa, who refrained from speaking the mind he likely shared with her concerning such behaviour.

Sansa always brought questions to his mind. An observant girl who appeared more emotional affected by the death of Minisa than his other daughters, who also were upset. She had good control on her emotions when a situation demanded it, such as greeting the Lannisters this morning. However, she wasn’t a closed off person without a heart; he’d seen that when he found her in Minisa’s company and during his wife’s final hours.

After the sombre meal, the dining hall emptied of both his guests and daughters, each taking their leave to pursue privacy or quiet entertainment. Lady Genna took her niece with her once they’d left the hall.

He’d requested relative silence for the rest of the day from the prince and the Lannisters.  

Hoster himself went to his wife’s bedchamber and lingered there while imagining what she would be doing now had she survived childbed. She loved her children and with each one of them, Minisa kept them close while she rested back in her own bed. He remembered those times, often sitting beside her on the mattress at night as he ran his fingers through her hair and over the babe’s soft skin. Watching the child rest against her as she slept had always brought a smile to his face; the scene was such one of peace.

_If only there was a portrait of one of those days._

Rising to his feet, Hoster quietly walked down the hall to Oswell’s and Joseth’s nursery with the desire to hold his sons in his arms and marvel at their presence. The guards at the door were mainly a pretence because he knew the world was not a place of innocent people. His most trusted men protected his sons from being taken from the nursery or infected by illness carried by other people.

He would not lose the last children brought into this world by his wife.

Minisa would never forgive him if it happened.

Getting closer and spotting the guards there, he received bowed heads of respect and sympathy which he accepted gratefully.

He dismissed them and they were soon on their way.

About to enter the chamber, Hoster paused by the ajar door when he heard the voice of children softly coming from within. One of them was Sansa, his mysterious daughter, while the other was presumably the Lannister heir, Jaime Lannister.

Taking an unused seat that the men were provided to relieve their legs, Hoster used the reflection from the window to see the inside of the nursery to watch his daughter and sons.

Hands resting on the bassinette, Sansa had soft eyes on her brothers while they slept. “My mother fought to bring my brothers into the world,” she said sadly. “She was so happy when she held them.”

The Lannister boy looked empathetic and turned to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” was the quiet reply. “I wouldn’t know how my mother felt about Tyrion. No one ever told me,” he confided in his daughter. “I don’t think they will or just don’t know.”

Hoster watched as Sansa grew thoughtful and thumbed the rim of Joseth’s bassinette, lips quirking wryly but it was gone as quickly as it had come. Eyes down towards her brothers for a moment she gazed upon them before she looked up towards the boy of nine. “I was told something once,” she uttered quietly. “That you have no choice but to love your children,” Sansa appeared to recite.

The heir met her eyes with a hint of longing. “Was that only mothers or fathers too?”

The Lord knew where this was going. It was no secret that Tyrion Lannister existed and the loathing Tywin had for his second son. However, Jaime Lannister’s expression hinted at something more. Mayhaps the man was, to an extent, cold towards his other children.

The gaze of his daughter dropped to the boys where they slept, looking melancholy and watching the boys. “Mothers,” she replied with longing. “I was told by a mother in Harrenhal, but I imagine the same applies to fathers too,” she lied.

Hoster knew she’d never been to the girlhood home of his wife, but the opinion had a genuine voice.

There was a look of disbelief and Jaime Lannister scoffed at her without being overly loud.

Sansa didn’t look angered by such behaviour and watched the heir patiently. “You doubt me,” she spoke without surprise. “What reason do you have to doubt my words?”

Turning his head away, the boy answered her “Father.” Was the one-worded answer. “He’s so busy as Hand that I wonder if he knows he is our father,” he muttered bitterly.

This appeared to be of great interest to his middle daughter, who walked around to his other side. “Did he spend any time with you and your sister?” she said with bright eyes watching the boy.  “I’m not a fool to ask about Tyrion.”

Indeed. Hoster knew Sansa was no fool and caught onto behavioural traits quickly of whatever company she was with at the time. She had an unusual tendency to understand the nuances of certain people swiftly, but needing extended time concerning others. Oftentimes, Sansa needed to learn the habits of those within Riverrun, but once she knew them it required a strong difference of opinion for there to be a dispute; and those were a rare occurrence.

“He does,” Jaime Lannister said stiffly and took a breath. “But not like a father,” he added. “Not really.” The heir turned his eyes down to Hoster’s sons, resting his arms on the bassinette frame. The boy’s expression became hesitant and unsure. “Do you blame the twins?” he asked, which made Hoster stiffen.

The lord couldn’t imagine Sansa thinking of her brothers in such a way. His wife had known Sansa thoroughly and once the poor girl had forced herself to leave the childbed chamber, Minisa told him that their daughter cared for them already.  

“For Lady Tully’s death?” Jaime Lannister added.

Sansa had a look of mild intrigue and a small trace of upset. Blinking she answered him with a question of her own. “Does a child choose the outcome when they’re brought into the world?”

“I don’t think so,” the heir said without hesitation.

His daughter gave Jaime a brief look of approval but it was gone quite quickly. Lifting her fingers to the necklace they’d gifted her during her final time with Minisa, Sansa grew quiet and her eyes were downcast when she took a breath. It was a moment before she continued the conversation. “Every mother knows there’s a risk when their belly swells with child.”

There seemed to be an expression of relief on the Lannister heir’s face after she’d said that. “So will you love them anyway?”

Sansa looked up and met his eyes. “Do you love Tyrion?”

“He’s my brother. Of course, I do,” he said with indignation he forced to keep down.

She smiled at him, eyes softened when she gazed at her brothers for a moment. Sansa turned back to face the heir. “And I love Oswell and Joseth as much as I loved Mother and my memories of her.” Picking up Joseth, Sansa cradled the babe in her arms with care and faced Jaime Lannister. “Every child is innocent,” she told him, tracing the cheek of Joseth with a light touch.

Gazing at the babe in his daughter’s arms, the Lannister heir stared towards the window for a moment and turned back to Sansa. “If only Cersei believed that,” he said with disappointment. “She blames Tyrion for my mother’s death.” Turning away, the boy looked at something unseen. “Father hates him.”

Sansa had no expression of surprise from hearing this. “Cersei,” she uttered for a moment before straightening up. “I believe Cersei blames him because his body is different,” his daughter reasoned with the boy without giving Cersei Lannister an excuse. “She wants something to blame her pain upon, so she blames his disfigurement.” The girl put Joseth down and took Oswell into her arms, delivering a kiss to the babe’s forehead. “Lord Tywin is not a man I believe to be a lackwit. He wouldn’t have his reputation if he was,” she began slowly.

The heir met her eyes and his own held an unsaid question that he didn’t immediately speak. “Father’s no fool, but what are you suggesting?” he asked her uncertainly, watching her carefully.

Licking her lips, his girl took a few paces around the bassinette and met the boy’s eyes. “Mayhaps he cared for Lady Joanna to a point that he needs to redirect the pain to cope; so he directs it to Tyrion,” she guessed, eyes hesitant before they became confidence once more. “Don’t take my word as fact though. I could be wrong. We’ve never met,” she admitted to him.

The Lannister just shook his head at her, but not out of disagreement. “You and my sister are both girls. But you don’t hate your brothers. Why?”

“Between Cersei and I, the difference could be I acknowledge the boys had no influence in what happened,” his daughter suggested, emphasising the point with the sleeping babe in her arms. Closing her eyes for a moment, Sansa looked grieved and inhaled before looking back at the boy. “Accepting someone’s death is difficult and painful; mayhaps Cersei has not,” she said gently.

“Ugh,” he groaned running a hand over one side of his face. “Girls are confusing,” he uttered sounding ready to sit down and give up.

Hoster expected Sansa to take the comment as an insult. Instead, his daughter simply smiled at Jaime with mild amusement.

Rocking the babe in her arms, she placed Oswell back in the bassinette. “We’re all very different, I’m afraid, Jaime.”

“I know,” he responded in that defeated tone. “That’s what’s confusing.”

With a glint of laughter in her eyes, Sansa ran her fingers along the edge of the bassinette. “Some are impulsive. Some are patient. Some are thoughtful. Some hold a grudge. And some make exceptions,” she said softly, looking up with a smile before she spoke again. “There are others but that’s merely a few examples.”

The heir rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. “It’s already a long list.”

“The possibilities are endless,” she teased from where she stood near the bassinettes.

Jaime Lannister held his hands up in mock surrender. “You seem to have an answer for anything,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Are you the Crone in disguise?”

That captured Hoster’s interest.

_What other questions could she have answered for him already?_

Sansa was a clever girl and mayhaps used her wit to help him in one thing or another unless it was merely commenting on the conclusion she’d drawn about his family. They had sounded like valid possibilities. It was rare for a child of ten to have the insight she’d display thus far within the nursery.

“No, Jaime, I promise you I am not,” she calmly promised him. When the boy continued to look at her she explained further. “I’m just a girl who watches people so I understand why they do and say certain things.”

Nodding his head and coming up to the other side of the bassinettes, Jaime Lannister stared at her with a serious expression. “So you will always love your brothers?”

Sansa looked down to Hoster’s sons but he couldn’t see her face. “No matter what, I know I will,” she uttered, voicing bleeding with certainty.

“That’s good,” remarked the heir, visibly relaxing his shoulders.

His daughter came around and Hoster could see her face once more. “You feared otherwise, didn’t you?” she guessed confidently.

Jamie looked contrite for what he had said to her and was fiddling with the bassinette frame, meeting her eyes with hesitation. “No offence, Sansa, but yes. Cersei blames Tyrion; I thought you might become the same,” he admitted, gaze still on Sansa while his fingers were restless.

“Never,” she said with a firm voice. Looking into the bassinettes, Sansa spoke in a whisper Hoster struggled to hear. “I’d give my life for them if need be.”

From where he was seated, Hoster took a breath and prayed that it would never come to such a thing with any of his children. He’d already lost his wife to childbed and should the girl that had a growing place in his heart die, it would leave a pain that would not fade. To not care about Sansa after seeing the love between Minisa and Sansa had become impossible; that girl had committed so much time and effort into making sure Minisa was taken care of while she carried the twins.

“Sorry.”

Looking back into the reflection of the glass, Hoster watched his daughter shake her head gently.

“There’s no need to apologise,” she excused the boy. “What else were you to think? Cersei’s the only other example you’ve seen, isn’t she?”

The heir nodded. “It’s why I want to become a knight; what Cersei does to Tyrion,” he shared lowly. “‘Defend the weak. Protect the innocent.’” Looking a bit uncomfortable, Jaime Lannister made for the door and Hoster made quick work of going over to the door to his solar and holding it half open as though leaving it. “Thanks for showing me the twins, Sansa. I best go to my chambers or something.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you on the morrow.”

It wasn’t long before the heir was out of the nursery and heading off down the hall, appearing to have missed Hoster’s presence completely.

Eavesdropping was not something that Hoster ever had made a habit of once he was no longer a child; however, it had been a rather interesting line of conversation to listen to. His daughter sounded well beyond her years with the thorough reasoning for such an unusual topic. The topic itself was something not normally shared between two people who’d met that very morning. It was as though she had a level of knowledge that he wouldn’t have expected her to have. However, it was not the case. Jaime Lannister had told her his family’s view of the little Lannister, Hoster at least knew it was a matter of deduction by Sansa; not foreknowledge.

_What could have brought on enough interest or ease between them to discuss something of such sensitivity?_

He didn’t know, but it was a rather interesting development to have grown between two children of nine and ten. Admittedly, there was the similarity in the loss of their mothers, yet to share thoughts on the subject was something he’d never expected. Boys were commonly more interested in matters such as arms training, lordships, and knighthood, for example.

Entering the nursery, he found Sansa standing over the bassinettes and gazing at her sleeping brothers.

Opening the door caught her attention and he was greeted by Tully eyes. “Sansa?” he murmured, coming to her side.

“Father,” she said in the same manner. “Today was difficult on all of us. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Coming around and tentatively placing his arm on the shoulders of his daughter, Hoster gave a weak smile in reply. “I saw how much your last moment with your mother affected you, Sansa. You matter no less than your sisters,” he told her. “I see so much of your mother in you, Sansa. You have her heart.”

Hoster witnessed her eyes widen with the shine of tears threatening to escape. “Thank you, Father. I’m…thank you.”

Hesitantly bringing her into a hug, Hoster rested her head on his chest and shushed her while she gripped his doublet and quietly cried against him

Looking down at the heartbroken girl, he felt the necklace that had overjoyed Minisa brush against his fingers.

_Farewell, sweet wife._


	12. Damn the Dornishman

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 14, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

Stirring in his bed and noticing a hint of light coming through the curtains, Jaime remembered he needed to be by the stables before sunrise. After the third ride with Lady Sansa, they had agreed yesterday to ride once the sun was above the horizon.

He was about to climb out of bed when he realised he wasn’t alone.

There was extra weight on the mattress behind him.

_Cersei._

Looking over his shoulder, he indeed saw his sister in his bed and not even wearing a shift or smallclothes; she was watching him for a moment before she pinned him to the bed. Although surprised Jaime pushed her back and got up, leaving her alone on the bed as he proceeded to get dressed for the morning ride.

_I’m barring the door from now on._

“You’re not riding.” Cersei closed the gap between them and kissed him deeply.

Pushing her off so he could put on his breeches, Jaime glared at her. “Why not?”

He watched cautiously as she sashayed over to him and leant near his ear; kissed it. “We are one soul in two bodies.” He pulled away and threw her the missing shift, but Cersei simply lets it fall to the floor once more. “We belong together, Jaime,” she urged, grabbing his shoulders to hold him against her.

“No.”

Cersei’s expression morphed to bitterness when he shook her off and turned away. “I won’t let that tart keep us apart!” Not bothering to look back, he left his chambers and buttoned his doublet while stalking down the guest wing. With Cersei as naked as her nameday it wouldn’t be difficult to put distance between them. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to tolerate her again for at least a little while.

Soon at the stables, but Lady Sansa not yet present, he got himself comfortable and released a breath.

_This is getting out of hand._

Rubbing his face, Jaime resented the way that Cersei was acting as though she owned him. Glancing back at the door of the stables, he scoffed at the comparison that crossed his mind.

No one owned him.

It seemed as though every noble girl near his age at Casterly Rock and Lannisport had nothing in mind aside from becoming the next Lady of Casterly Rock, to _have_ him as _theirs_. It was never the same girl twice, thankfully he never saw them again after the first day, but nearly every other moon there was a new one; talking to him about how wonderful they thought Casterly Rock was and other nonsense to get him to like them.

He never knew them; never had any reason to be interested.

At the time, Cersei had been the one who made him happy.

_But ever since those letters…_

Blind once, he mayhaps been about his sister, but no more and never again.

Coming to Riverrun have shown him there were different kinds of people. People with different ambitions, different things they considered important, different views on situations.

He couldn’t keep the conversation in the twins’ nursery out of his head. Cersei would have let Tyrion die if given the choice, already tried killing him in fact, whereas Lady Sansa would give her life to save her twin brothers. In that same conversation, he’d seen the way Lady Sansa gazed upon those them, held them, talked about them. And Cersei would never have treated Tyrion like that; she wanted their brother dead.

Cersei was his sister and he had no desire to hate her. However, the way she acted made it difficult to genuinely care. It had been moons since he’d last willingly been in her company while as naked as his nameday; he had no regrets about that change. He wished he could be a proper sibling to her as he was to Tyrion; to care and respect one another without going beyond that.

His wish was something Cersei had not yet realised or refused to acknowledge, and her attempts to regain control over him only made Jaime dislike his sister more. Father was already cold towards him; he didn’t want another member of his small family to dislike him for who he was or wanted to be. Cersei hated him pulling away and was fighting against it. He didn’t want him and Tyrion to be the only ones who cared about family.

Getting to his feet and beginning to pace, Jaime crossed his arms close to his chest lost in his thoughts.

A tall figure approached from the corner of his eye. “The Golden Lion is bothered.”

Snapping his attention to the Dornish voice, he watched as the Red Viper sat down and seemed to be studying him.

“What is it that bothers Jaime Lannister?”

Reluctant to share his troubles with Prince Oberyn, Jaime said nothing and fiddled with his doublet.

“Is our Lady Sansa not a gracious lady?” Prince Oberyn remarked with a smug look on his face when Jaime met his eyes. “You ride with her every day.” The prince just kept looking at him. “You’re miserable, yet you smile in her company. So it can’t be Lady Sansa.” After a minute Prince Oberyn smirked. “No,” he drawled. “It’s your sister. Were she not here I wouldn’t be so tempted to leave; nightmare that she is.” Getting to his feet, Oberyn leaned against the wall. “Your father refused a betrothal between your sister and I. It seems I was saved many troubles two years ago.”

Jaime's eyes met the piercing black ones of the prince. “Cersei was to be a future princess of Dorne?”

The prince had laughter in his eyes. “She’s to become a Targaryen princess now. I wish them every happiness.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that and luckily didn’t have to when they both heard the sound of horses approaching. Lady Sansa mounted on her grey mare, holding the reins of the chestnut he always rode.

“Your lady is here,” Prince Oberyn commented and briefly lifted an eyebrow when he walked away, leaving Jaime alone in a fluster with Lady Sansa.

Lady Sansa watched the prince leave and shook her head. Turning to Jaime, she gave him an expression of sympathy from where she sat. “Good morrow. I pray you weren’t at his mercy for too long, Lord Jaime,” she wished him before a stable boy helped Jaime up into the saddle of what had become his horse here.

Not really in the mood to discuss the prince, Jaime got a comfortable hold of the reins and turned to Lady Sansa. “It’s Jaime, my lady.”

She smiled at the reminder; it had become somewhat of a jape between them. “And it’s Sansa, my lord,” she said with poorly concealed amusement. “I apologise for being late. The head handmaiden needed to be informed of some changes.”

Eager to get out of Riverrun and away from Cersei, who was watching from her chambers, Jaime looked to Sansa and nudged his horse into a trot. Soon after, he took the lead and rode out of the westward drawbridge, instead of the eastern one as usual. “It’s no problem, Sansa,” he told her. Wanting a distraction from what happened in his chambers, he increased to a canter and Sansa caught up soon enough.

“Jaime? Is everything well?” she asked sounding concerned. “We’re not normally this fast so soon.”

Slowing his horse to a slower canter, he flashed a smile to alleviate her of any worries in her mind. “Everything’s fine, Sansa,” he lied. “I wanted speed for a moment. That’s all.”

She didn’t seem to believe him but didn’t mention the doubt. “It was a surprise to me,” she told him, eyes on the path ahead. “I apologise for overthinking about it.”

There it was again; the evident difference between Cersei and Sansa. One who cared about her own wants and one who cared about other people. Sansa had been a pleasant person during the stay of the Lannisters of four days now. Sometimes he had no wish to discuss something and she never pushed the issue. Cersei wouldn’t have let the matter rest until she knew everything.

Sansa was the only friend he had. Sure, there were boys that roughhoused with him in Lannisport, but they were more interested in Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister.

Not in the person he was.

He wasn’t stupid. Well, as he used to be at least.

He used to have Cersei, but that was long behind him now. Her determination to control him damaged his trust in her. And over the past four days, she had become a person he barely could tolerate. The more he befriended Sansa, the more Cersei would try using intimacy to get him to become the boy he was prior to the unnamed letters.

In companionable silence, Jaime rode alongside Sansa and gazed at the land he hadn’t seen while limited to the wheelhouse on the way to Riverrun. Eyes covering every inch of the lush green area and ears hearing the sound of the gentle water gave him a feeling of peace that never existed at the Rock.

Leading the way to a high point, he brought his horse to a stop and looked at Sansa as she did the same.

Jaime watched as she rested her hands on the saddlehorn, gazing upon at the land ahead of them. She never said a word while she continued to look on. Something in her eyes told him she was in a memory; he recognised the look for what it was from his own experience.

“Sansa,” he whispered. She hardly moved but he saw her head turn marginally towards him. “It helps when you tell somebody. If you want…”

There was little sound other than that of the resting horses and their own breathing, but in time she blinked and her posture relaxed slightly. “It was the first time I felt at home at Riverrun,” Sansa said softly. “The night I knew within myself that she loved me just the same as my sisters. A moon after I arrived.”

Jaime glanced away and met her eyes again. He was grateful she’d kept it short despite his offer. Things would’ve felt awkward to him otherwise; feel too private to discuss.

“A moon…?” he uttered, thinking what exactly this meant for Sansa.

_How much time did she have without doubts?_

Sansa turned her gaze towards the land ahead and nudged her horse into a walk. “Tomorrow marks my second moon’s turn at Riverrun.”

_Less than a moon…_

Jaime hung his head and sighed. “I am sorry, Sansa.” Looking up he saw she still had her gaze on the land.

“Jaime,” she said, finally looking at him and her eyes showing no tears. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Sansa told him, increasing her horse to a trot.

Doing the same, he rode beside her down along River Road. “Mayhaps, but I feel like it’s my fault for suggesting-”

She waved away his apology. “You’re right about talking. It does help,” Sansa remarked, giving a grateful look. “More than I expected in truth. And you offered to listen, Jaime. It was my choice to speak,” Sansa explained, firm but gentle.

Releasing a breath has hadn’t known he’d been holding. He nodded to Sansa and copied her when she increased the pace to a light canter. He knew what it felt like when you never talked about something that troubled you.

One was wearing away at him right now.

Her eyes became serious but not hard. “When the time comes, I will do the same for you.”

Jaime had a feeling that Sansa was hinting at the lie he told her earlier about everything being alright; he remembered how she didn’t believe it. However, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it and talk. Sansa was his only friend for friendship’s sake, and there was no doubt in his mind how she would react if he dared to tell her his troubles about Cersei. It would disgust her no matter that Sansa was a strangely forgiving and patient person.

_I just can’t._

_It’s too risky._

There was too much at stake if he so much as uttered a word of Cersei’s advances. It would lead to questions. Questions he would never want to answer; such as his willing involvement in the times before now.

_I don’t want to lose a real friend._

So he kept his mouth shut about it and nodded to Sansa.

There was a difference between being a coward and being a fool, and Jaime was no fool. The Targaryens were well known for their sibling intimacies and marriage, but Westeros would never learn or know about what used to be between him and Cersei. The effect of such a thing happening would ruin his family’s reputation and the earnt respect from the other Great Houses.

There was no deep love between him and Father, who cared highly about the reputation of House Lannister. Jaime, however, wasn’t stupid enough to risk everything by uttering a secret to trusted family, let alone a girl he’d met four days ago.

She seemed to understand him like an open book and acted accordingly; making her an easy person to be around because she made him comfortable. But that didn’t mean he was going to be a lackwit.

As though she could tell he was stressed, Sansa spurs her horse into a quick canter and glanced over her shoulder in a challenge.

Chasing after her, Jaime was grateful for the welcome distraction and followed Sansa to Riverside and along a sweeping bend that brought them around until they were galloping back towards Riverrun. Once side by side, he slowed his horse to a canter as she did and crossed the drawbridge back into the yard and riding towards the stables.

Cersei was scowling from floors above.

Silently, they both dismounted and passed the reins over to a waiting stable boy, who took the horses away and left him alone with Sansa.

_Will she speak about the lie?_

Instead of an accusation, like those he was so used to from his sister, Jaime watched as Sansa bobbed into a brief curtsy and met his eyes. “It was a pleasure, Jaime,” she spoke politely. “I wish you a good day.”

Nodding thanks, he gave a simple reply. “And you, Sansa.”

Remaining in the yard to relax in the fresh air, Jaime watched her go to do her duties of Lady of Riverrun, which Sansa shared with Lady Catelyn. She was about to enter the castle when she glanced over her shoulder back to him for a second but continued inside.

A sense of tension flooded him, and the relief from the ride faded away into nothing now that he was likely to run into Cersei, who knew he was back. He didn’t want to be with her, and he felt too awkward to be around Sansa right now. It was clear Sansa knew that he was bothered by something, but she didn’t ask any questions after he’d turned down the opportunity to talk about it.

He had no plans to talk to anyone about it.

Making for his chambers where a hot bath was likely waiting for him, Jaime encountered his uncle, who was approaching the Dining hall to break his fast.

“Jaime,” Uncle Kevan called out contently to him and paused near the doorway. “I’m curious about your daily rides with the Lady Sansa,” he admitted with a caring smile. Uncle Kevan was always a pleasant man. Firm when he considered it necessary, but otherwise an enjoyable member of the family to be with.

“Yes, Uncle?”

Approaching Jaime so there was an extent of privacy, Uncle Kevan rested an easy hand on his shoulder. “Do you like them?” he asked cordially.

Jaime raised a cocky eyebrow. “I’m not in the wheelhouse,” he replied cheekily, making his uncle laugh. “They’re alright.”

“The wheelhouse from Casterly Rock was for your safety, Jaime,” Uncle Kevan replied, looking amused. "One would say your ridings were rather enjoyed,” he teased mildly.

“They get me away from Cersei, and Sansa’s nice to be around,” he admitted, not noticing his mistake.

Uncle Kevan’s lips twitched. “Lady Sansa, Jaime,” he lightly scolded. “We don’t want to disrespect the Tullys and not call her by her title.” Jaime’s uncle didn’t sound overly serious, but he took the advice all the same.

“I will, Uncle Kevan.”

Taking a step away from his nephew, Uncle Kevan tilted his head towards the guest wing of the castle. “Go and bath, Jaime. You reek of horse.” He nudged Jaime in the right direction with a chuckle as he left.

“I haven’t had the chance!” Jaime called out indignantly, resulting in the laughter of Uncle.

Although he’d been laughed at, Jaime felt lighter and returned to his chambers; the door of which was open with no one inside. Relieved that his sister had at some point left his bedchamber, the Lannister heir entered and swiftly barred the door. He wanted peace and quiet after fighting with Cersei so early in the day.  

Pleasant as it was to be alone and gather his thoughts, Jaime knew he couldn’t tarry for too long before his absence would be noted; Cersei had already upset and insulted the Tullys in different ways.

He’d been ashamed when she’d turned up for the funeral in her brightest gown and didn’t try to hide her boredom in the Dining hall, which Hoster didn’t take too kindly while he mourned his wife. Lord Tully didn’t say a thing, but Aunt Genna certainly gave Cersei an earful for that.

She would look at Brynden ‘Blackfish’ Tully with derision when the man wasn’t looking, or so she thought. Jaime noticed otherwise.

Lady Catelyn didn’t have the same hold on her emotions as Sansa and stormed off without a word at least once.

Despite the fact Cersei never tried it near their aunt and uncle, it was an embarrassment that his sister increasingly tried to irritate and offend Sansa enough to get the girl to shout; to no avail so far. Jaime was surprised that Sansa hadn’t told her father yet; there was no other explanation for Lord Tully not making demands of the Lannisters for recompense of the agreed sennight for him to mourn his wife.

Cersei had yet to encounter the youngest Tully girl, who was nine like Jaime and Cersei. It seemed she was handling Lady Tully’s death with seclusion in her chambers. Gods, he was glad for that.

Feeling the water start to cool, Jaime climbed out and made short work of dressing for the day. The food in the Dining hall would be taken away soon if he didn’t make haste. One time he’d taken just a little too long and had to ask Lady Catelyn where the kitchens were; it was awkward since Cersei had insulted her the day before, but directions were provided nonetheless.

Thankfully he arrived before resorting to such a thing again would be necessary. Inside the Dining hall was Lady Lysa, who murmured a ‘good morrow’ but otherwise kept to herself. Mayhaps she’d been told about Cersei so Jaime wasn’t really offended by the lack of enthusiasm. Their mother had died a matter of days ago after all. Losing your mother was not easy; he knew that.

Breaking his fast, he acknowledged those present in the Dining hall but otherwise didn’t break the relative silence out of respect for the mourning family. His riding partner arrived shortly afterwards and appeared to sense the atmosphere there, so didn’t say too many words herself. Taking her own seat, Sansa nodded to him and proceeded to choose her meal as he’d done and broke her fast beside her sister.

Once finished with his own food and making his way to the toddlers’ nursery, Jaime encountered Cersei looking bitter as she cornered him in the halls.

“Enjoyed your time with the tart?” she spat angrily. “You left me like a whore.”

Not in the mood for the earlier argument to start again, he walked around her and ignored the remarks or risk encouraging her to continue. Not that it made too much difference anyway. Once his sister started something, it required a great measure of patience before she’d run out of things to say without repeating herself. He knew she hated saying anything twice because it made her sound like a fool.

He’d seen from more than one of Cersei’s attempts to rile Sansa how silence was sometimes the best way to make his sister run out of things to say and finally leave. Although it worked better between the girls, Cersei was more persistent around him; so determined to own him like a possession.

It was honestly tiring. And frankly, he was getting sick of it.

When he finally reached the nursery of Edmure and Tyrion, Jaime made straight for Tyrion and his sister finally left, glaring with disgust at the little boy.

Joining Tyrion by his toys, a puzzle, Jaime ruffled the blonde hair and grinned mischievously. “Hello, little brother.”

“Jaime!” Batting away his hand, Tyrion sat on Jaime’s leg and got comfortable.

_Help yourself._

“Cersei is really grumpy,” the two-year-old remarked, making him crack a wry grin.

_Wasn’t that the truth these days?_

“She always is, Tyrion.”

 

_Day 16, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

In the square of the yard allocated to arms training, he was practising his forms for swordsmanship and Jaime glanced over at Prince Oberyn who lazed on a seat in the midday sun.

“So what’s it like being in a tourney, Prince Oberyn?” he asked the only other male noble anything near his age in Riverrun.

“Depends on your preference,” the prince replied, getting to his feet and taking out a practice sword from the rack. “The sword? Or the lance?”

Watching as the prince joined him in the square, he shrugged. “What’s jousting like?” Prince Oberyn made a gesture for Jaime to go on the offensive and take the opening move. He grinned at the opportunity to spar and began with a feint towards one side but to strike at the other.

Except for the prince easily deflected him. “Never seen a joust?”

“I’ve never seen a tourney,” Jaime replied, not letting Prince Oberyn’s evident skills discourage him from trying. He liked a challenge.

“When the new Targaryen lives you’ll see one. He or she is expected soon.” They were sparring in earnest. “I’ve competed in two.”

“Only two? But how-”

“Do I fight like this?” the prince finished for him smugly. “The fighting pits. Essos.”

“After you were banished?” Jaime remembered the history of how the Red Viper earned his name.

“Aye, after I was banished.”

“Can you joust?” Jaime persisted. He seriously wanted to know something about jousting. It was exciting from what he’d heard.

“I can, but enjoy a melee more.”

“Why?”

“So many questions,” Prince Oberyn uttered in mock irritation. His eyes showed challenge. “Fight harder, Lannister, and I shall tell you.”

He really wanted to know, so put in every effort to at least keep the prince occupied. Jaime was no match for the man of eighteen, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try to find a weakness to exploit and seize. By the gods, it was difficult against a man with quick reflexes.

“That’s enough,” Prince Oberyn said, returning the training sword to its place. “You’re exhausted. Take a seat before you drop.”

Sweaty from the spar, Jaime felt the impulse to be insulted by Martell’s remark; however, it was the truth. He’d tried everything he knew against the prince but never succeeded. He hoped to be as good, no, even better than him one day. “So, jousting?” he pushed once sitting down.

Prince Oberyn smirked when he took a seat “Your horse is charging, and so is his,” he began factually. “One of three things happens; your opponent misses with his lance, strikes your chest, or strikes your chest and knocks you on your arse.”

He couldn’t help it. Jaime snorted at the blunt description and looked at the prince. “Did you get knocked on your arse a lot then?”

Prince Oberyn scoffed a laugh. “Very little,” he denied. “But there’s always someone better.”

Clearly he wasn’t going to hear any more about jousting and instead asked about the other. “And the melee?”

His company grinned at the mention of it. “That’s where I’m the best.”

Jaime turned towards Prince Oberyn. “You seem certain about that,” he observed, but the man just smiled. Feeling a little daring, Jaime tested his luck with the rather casual prince. “Will you prove it in the tourney next year?”

Prince Oberyn raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Is that a challenge, Lannister?” he asked humouredly, tilting his head to one side. “You shouldn’t bet against me.”

“Lose the melee and you owe me ten Dragons. Lose the joust and you owe me twenty Dragons as well,” Jaime proposed, daring the prince to object. “But you don’t like the joust,” he reminded needlessly.

There was a glint in Prince Oberyn’s eyes and Jaime knew he’d taken the bait. “We have an accord, Lannister. At the tourney’s end will you owe me thirty Dragons.”

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” Jaime quoted, relaxing in the seat and eyes towards the sky.

The man beside him chuckled. “I shall win both,” he promised. “And you shall dance with the Lady Sansa at its feast.”

Jaime snapped his head towards the prince so quick that it hurt. “Wait, what?!”

“You wouldn’t oppose a betrothal to her,” Prince Oberyn taunted. “Admit it.”

“There’s nothing to admit!”

_There really wasn’t. Sansa was just a nice person._

At the sound of approaching feet, both of them looked up and saw the very lady they’d been talking about. “Are you so sure you shall win, Prince Oberyn?” Sansa interjected, with a teasing smile aimed at the prince. “From what I’ve heard, Ser Barristan Selmy is quite the jouster,” she remarked with certainty. It made Jaime feel a little easier about the bet. “Do you believe you will beat him?"               

Prince Oberyn feinted wounded pride. “So little faith, Little lady.”

“That’s why you call me ‘Little lady’, Prince Oberyn,” she retorted wittily, and the prince grimaced wryly. Sansa was looking at the man with a polite smile, but her eyes hinting at victory. “There’s always someone better. You said so yourself,” Sansa commented with an innocent look. Jaime had to smother a chuckle to avoid it being noticed.

“You wound me, Lady Sansa,” the prince japed.

Sansa gave him a sweet smile. “I advise practising against my uncle or Ser Kevan while you have the chance.” She made it sound as though he had little chance of winning the tourney.

Prince Oberyn gave her a sweeping bow. “I shall heed your lady wisdom, Lady Sansa,” he told her and walked away; Sansa covering her laugh with a hand.

Jaime could see the ease between the pair and wondered if Sansa had a natural skill with people; unless they were already friends from knowing one another. Curious about her opinion on the bet, he asked. “Do you think he will win the joust?” He was genuinely interested and desired to know if the prince was any good at jousting. Prince Oberyn seemed significantly more confident about the melee.

Watching as she took the now empty seat, Sansa looked in the prince’s direction briefly. “Who knows?” she admitted, facing Jaime. “However, he relies on agility instead of strength in a sword fight. I feel it’s safe to assume he could lose the joust. A lance to the chest and remaining on your horse; that requires strength,” she reasoned convincingly. “But if he does win and you don’t want to, I’ll just say you did dance with me if he asks.”

Jaime had honestly not expected that. In Casterly Rock feasts he had been obligated to dance with some noble’s daughter despite his wish not to. “Thank you, Sansa. That’s…nice.”

There was a sympathetic look for a moment before she gave a smile. “You’re welcome, Jaime. No one likes being forced into anything.”

_Is there not a selfish bone in her body? Girls love dancing._

Rising from her seat, Sansa gestured towards the castle entrance. “The midday meal will be served soon,” she informed him politely. “Would you like me to delay it slightly so you may change?”

“No need,” he replied. “It won’t take me long.”

She bobbed a curtsy and walked back inside, Jaime watching her go but spotted Cersei lurking near a corner with her eyes glaring at him.

_What have I gotten myself into?_


	13. Final Straws in Riverrun

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 21, 12 th moon, 275 AC_

Cresting a hill with the early sun to his back, Jaime glanced over his shoulder to Sansa who was riding in pursuit with a lively smile on her face.  He slowed his horse to a walk instead of cantering the remaining length towards Riverrun like normal, and Sansa slowed once she was beside him.

Sansa rested within her saddle and turned to him, her breath calming while they moved at a slower pace. “It’s going to be strange riding every day without a companion,” she remarked quietly and relaxing the reins of her horse. “I imagine the negotiations will come to an end soon.”

Jaime grimaced, knowing exactly what would be waiting for him when they leave Riverrun.

“What is it, Jaime?”

He met her eye and waved a hand towards Riverrun. “The wheelhouse,” he said with distaste remembering how it had remained in the yard for the past ten days. “Two sennights in it; and Cersei as the company?” He shook his head, looking skyward. “Torture for half a moon.”

Sansa looked at her saddle briefly, biting her lip. “I’ve seen the way you love riding, Jaime. So it’s easy to understand your dislike of the wheelhouse,” she observed, bringing her horse to a stop and Jaime did the same. “However, to loathe being in a wheelhouse with your sister? Our first ride you didn’t sound fond of her, but now even more so?” Sansa said rhetorically, full attention on him. “I pray it wasn’t something my family has caused?”

Shaking his head and looking at the castle from their viewpoint, Jaime sighed and met her expressive eyes. “It’s not. They have nothing to do with it; or Riverrun. Or you,” he told her seriously. Slouching in the saddle, the Lannister heir let out a breath. He glanced her way for a moment. “You’re a good friend, Sansa,” Jaime shared confidently before the reason for his dread returned. “Cersei hates that we are, but it won’t stop me. I don’t regret it, Sansa,” he told her firmly. “You’re kind to my family; even Tyrion when no one was watching.”

Jaime wanted her to know that. To know Cersei’s dislike towards her wasn’t going to mean he will push Sansa away, but he didn’t know how to say he was dreading the return home. Without Sansa around to make him forget about Cersei’s bitter pursuit to claim him as hers, Jaime was going to wish he was in the Seven Hells. Ever since that bet with Prince Oberyn, Cersei had become relentless in her attempts to find faults in the girl and tear her down as unworthy.

He could see she was hesitant about something, but a moment later she lifted a hand from her saddlehorn yet put it back down and released a breath. Meeting his eyes, Jaime could see her uncertainty melt away when she made to speak. “I’m glad we’re friends, Jaime. And I pray that distance won’t be an obstacle for us; Riverrun and Casterly Rock,” she replied. “As for Tyrion, I treat people by their deeds, and he is a delightful boy. Nearly three, I believe.”

Pleased that she was interested in remaining friends, a thought on the letters that plagued his mind for moons created an idea. “Would you write?” he suggested, catching her by surprise. “It’s nothing like horseback, but will you if I do?” he asked her, wondering if they could still be friends using ravens.

Sansa blinked at his desire for it, and a moment later she had a look of realisation. “Yes, Jaime, we shall write,” she agreed, smiling. “As ‘Jaime’ and ‘Sansa’. Not the children of Tywin Lannister and Hoster Tully.”

Jaime gaped at her for a minute, but when he saw her mild amusement he closed his mouth feeling embarrassed. “How- how did you know?”

“That a name has power? Or your lack of desire for it?” she asked, watching for his response.

That left him mentally stumbling for an answer, but Jaime made a quick decision. “Well, both, I suppose,” he divulged quietly. “Everyone wants to know the Heir of Casterly Rock, but they’re never interested in just me,” Jaime explained, remembering the way people talked to him about the happenings of House Lannister. “Just Jaime.”

The understanding expression sent his way made Jaime keep eye contact once they had it. “I can relate; more than you may think, Jaime,” Sansa said, eyes focusing unseeingly on the castle some distance ahead of them. Her words had given the impression of a story waiting to leave her lips, so he didn’t speak.

“In Harrenhal, it was the only reason someone other than my healer would interact with me,” she shared in a similar tone. “It wasn’t my personality or something that made me ‘Sansa’. It was _Tully_.” She looked at him and urged her horse into a walk. “They wanted the prestige and power that my Great House name included. They wanted Sansa Tully so I would be of benefit to them in the future if I survived.”

So much of that explanation rang true to Jaime. The circumstances mayhaps are different to his, but what happened within their different circumstances were the same.

Be friends with Jaime _Lannister_. Please and receive favours from Jaime _Lannister_. Become involved with House _Lannister_.

It was never about _Jaime_.

_Who was the last person, aside from Sansa, that was interested in the person I am? My likes, hates, strengths and weaknesses?_

Sansa straightened in her saddle and Jaime listened to her to hear more. She looked so solemn. “No one cared that I suffered when my health was struggling half the time. No one cared how pained I was being unable to see my family. No one cared I was abed often enough that I can converse in Low Valyrian,” she spoke with evident restraint. Jaime likely would have ranted with anger about those things. “They only cared that I am Hoster Tully’s daughter.”

The last part of her explanation caught his interest. “You can speak Low Valyrian?” he asked, wondering why she would choose such a thing. “Why?”

Sansa smiled at the question. “Yes, it’s the language of the Free Cities, and varies depending on where you are,” she said. “I was curious and wanted to learn.”

Words were not his forte, so a language was certainly something difficult for him to learn. “But no one was interested?”

“You understand?” she said to which he nodded. “No one was interested. Tully was all they cared about,” Sansa confirmed, and shortly after she appeared to have shaken off an invisible cloud around her. The stiffness in her posture melted, face softened and hands holding the reins loosened. “I considered it likely the heir of Tywin Lannister would be in a similar position; the name, not the person.”

To have found someone who understood his situation so thoroughly about having no real friends made Jaime’s guard come up. He didn’t want to be disappointed. “This isn’t a trick?”

“No, Jaime. This is no trick,” Sansa reassured with that look of understanding again. “I want to be your friend for the sake of friends; not power or prestige.”

Letting out a breath and smiling to himself, Jaime glanced back over at her and saw the little nod from her.

He couldn’t believe it.

The boys in Lannisport always wanted something from him and he now knew why they were always so cooperative in whatever scenario they had been in, mischievous or otherwise. They wanted to use his name for their benefit, and now he was riding a horse next to someone who knew exactly what it meant to belong to a Great House yet have no true friends.

She knew what it was like. And she wanted to be his friend.

He couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

“Sansa and Jaime, then,” he agreed and Sansa smiled. “To the Seven Hells with house names,” Jaime added enthusiastically, smiling when Sansa started laughing in her saddle.

“Never would I have guessed you would say that Jaime, but let’s keep that between us.” Taking the slack out of her reins, Sansa made herself poised to race. “A race back to celebrate?” she suggested, alight with happiness but dignified.

“Why, by the Gods, would I say no to that?” Preparing for the race took little time and he looked at her. “On three?”

Sansa chuckled, shaking her head. She gestured to a descending bird. “When that bird lands we go,” she countered, tilting her head slightly. “I fell for ‘three’ once before.”

He laughed at the memory of their first ride and waited for the bird to reach its tree.

In an instant, their horses were charging down to Riverrun until they reached one hundred paces from the drawbridge. Slowing to a canter and thundering across the bridge, Jaime and Sansa entered almost in unison, but Jaime had won by a hair. Trotting over to the stables and surrendering the horses, the pair re-entered the castle together smiling. When he looked to Sansa before she was due to take a corner, he noticed the happiness had vanished.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?”

“Listen.”

Watching as she turned a different corner, Jaime followed her and a voice he knew could be heard.

Cersei.

“-a few words? Your mother was weak if she couldn’t live to see her sons.”

Rounding another corner, Jaime witnessed Sansa’s back go ridged at those words while she stalked towards Cersei and Lady Catelyn. Without inflection, Sansa interrupted the dispute “Good morrow, Lady Cersei.” Both girls looked to Sansa in surprise. “Or mayhaps not so, since the late Lady Joanna was insulted by the words of her own daughter,” Sansa pointed out.

Jaime didn’t quite grasp how his mother was insulted but Cersei certainly seemed to. Sansa didn’t take her eyes off of Cersei but gestured with a hand for Lady Catelyn to leave, who briefly squeezed Sansa’s wrist and fled. Sansa spoke again. “For Lady Joanna’s sake, I advise you revoke those words.”

Day after day he’d heard Cersei offend Sansa, but getting no response. Clearly, Sansa had reached her tipping point and unable to ignore the words concerning her mother any more.

He wasn’t about to leave her to face Cersei alone like this.

_What friend would I be?_

Walking up to Sansa’s side, he gave her hand a squeeze to let her know he was here for her.

But that just angered his sister.

“You little _cunt!_ ” she roared at Sansa. Jaime saw Cersei’s intention and jumped in the way.

“Jaime!” Sansa cried from above him. “Ahhh!” she yelped.

“Get away from him, whore!”

“GUARDS!”

Pounding feet neared them.

_Gods, my head hurts…_

SANSA STARK

Staring into the wild eyes of Cersei, Sansa watched with patience as the guards restrained Cersei by the shoulders; there were three men unoccupied amongst them.

The superior guard spoke for the rest while holding Cersei back with the unneeded help of a second man. “Your command, Lady Regent?”

“The Dining Hall. Restrain her there. Provide a seat if needed. See this done immediately,” Sansa instructed the pair, using the mind and mask of The Lady of Winterfell. Cersei’s angered voice was fading while the guards followed Sansa’s order. “You three,” she addressed the idle guards. “One of you find Maester Kym and bringing him here. Another, locate Ser Kevan and Lady Genna and lead them to the Dining Hall. The last, alert Lord Tully he’s needed in the hall and express urgency,” she rattled off with calm and saw them carry out her bidding with haste.

Turning around, Sansa lowered herself to her knees and looked into Jaime’s hazy eyes. “Jaime?” she murmured softly, taking a good look at his state. “Jaime, are you awake?”

“It’s as though you’ve done that your whole life,” he muttered from where he laid on the stone floor. “I’m sorry Cersei hurt you, Sansa.”

_That’s what it felt like in Winterfell towards the end; an endless loop of duties and orders._

Sansa shook the memories from her mind and focused on the boy in front of her. “You’re coherent,” she deduced vocally. “Jaime. Does your head feel wet? Bleeding?” she asked, remaining calm but thinking quickly. The ground floor was stone after all.

“No. Just sore, Sansa,” he replied moving to sit up. Helping him, she saw him looking at her own face. His eyes were getting clearer. “Why are you so calm? And what did you mean to Cersei about my mother?”

The young Jaime Lannister was resting against the wall and looking at her. She feared her change in demeanour would change his mind about befriending her. Sansa hadn’t had a need to be stern and commanding like the Lady of a house at all during his visit. “If I’m anything else, it will lead to one large confusing disaster between houses. Clarity is essential for this to be resolved quickly,” she explained quietly.

Glancing at her knees briefly, Sansa answered the second question. “Cersei told Catelyn that my mother was weak for not surviving childbed. She unwittingly called Lady Joanna a weak woman. Your mother doesn’t deserve such disrespect,” Sansa defended, hoping that he would believe her. “I was defending both of our mothers and trying to stop Cersei from harassing Catelyn,” she reassured, watchful for his reaction; a little nod.

He appeared to be looking at her carefully. “So what you said wasn’t for revenge?”

“It wasn’t an insult to your mother, Jaime. I wouldn’t speak ill of my friend’s deceased mother,” Sansa promised. She should have expected the suspicion considering all of the false friends he’d had in the past. “It’s petty to speak ill of the dead in such a way.”

Jaime didn’t comment immediately, but his expression relaxed after a moment. “I believe you, Sansa.”

Sansa released a breath she hadn’t known to have held. “Thank you.”

Staring at her in confusion, Jaime met her eyes. “What for?”

“For trying to help,” she said. Sansa turned solemn as her main concern came forth. “I feared you would hate me for standing up to Cersei; being the Lady Regent and giving those orders.”

“No,” he told her, lifting a hand to his head and wincing. Looking her in the eye, Sansa could see his green eyes were sure. “You weren’t doing anything wrong. I do still think of you as a friend, Sansa.”

He may think well of her now, but Sansa’s past experiences and life had taught her that there was a price for everything. “Do you believe you can still consider me a friend when we go to the Dining Hall?” she asked nervously, her hands restless. She could be the stoic lady in front of enemies but not someone she cared about. “As a Lady Regent like Catelyn, it’s my duty to explain what happened. And the outcome…Jaime, she broke Guest Right. My father and your aunt and uncle will be angered by this.”

“I know. I jumped in front of you to stop her from breaking it,” he plainly told her, getting to his feet with her help for stability. Sansa could see his thoughts change when his eyes focused on her face. “Why are you so worried? This is Cersei’s doing, not yours.”

“I didn’t pretend to be another person around you, Jaime. Duty demanded I take control of the situation,” she explained, watching his calm eyes observed her. The silence was unnerving. “I swear there was no duplicity during our rides or when I was near Tyrion. It wasn’t a trick,” she swore, eyes flitting around his face for any signs of anger or disbelief.

Jaime took her hand; the action stilling Sansa from speaking her concerns. “Sansa,” he said. “I saw Aunt Genna handle Cersei after what she did in Lannisport. Do I hate her? No. Do I still like her like an aunt? Yes.” Jaime’s words made Sansa feel as though she was the one with a child’s mind in this conversation. “There was a problem you needed to fix. This is like Lannisport and Aunt Genna. I don’t hate Aunt Genna, and I don’t hate you. Stop worrying.”

Sansa glanced down at their hands and felt him squeeze hers, so she looked up and met his eyes.

“We. Are. Friends,” he stressed to her, a small shine of amusement before he became serious. “Cersei still struck you, Sansa. Are you alright?”

Nodding, she gave him a relieved smile and looked at the reflection in the glass.

She was a bit of a sight.

A pinking bruise and three thin lines of crusted blood on one cheek.

Jaime was worse yet similar.

Giving a quick smile, she spoke to alleviate his worries. “Nothing that needs a maester, Jaime,” she answered and noticed the man’s absence. “We can’t afford to wait any longer as it is. Our families would be in the Dining Hall by now.”

“Best we don’t tarry then,” he remarked. Offering his arm, Jaime turned in the right direction. “Sansa, are you ready?”

She could see he was trying to lighten the mood after what had happened. Smiling, she hooked her arm and made a jape when they walked. “How chivalrous of you, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime gave a single laugh and looked at her in surprise. “A jape, Sansa? I expected you’d be crying,” he admitted.

Meeting his eyes for a moment, Sansa recalled something she remembered hearing once. “It’s either laugh or cry in some matters,” she commented. Lifting a hand to her cheek, it was still tender but the sting wasn’t much of a bother. “Besides, it’s a mere bruise. Hardly worthy of a tear.”

Nearing the Dining Hall, there were voices coming from within and Jaime seemed to be bracing himself for what awaited them. Sansa wasn’t nervous. She hadn’t forgotten her times in the Throne Room of King’s Landing. This hardly compared.

_What exactly had Cersei done in Lannisport? All I’m aware of is she embarrassed the Lannisters there._

Entering the hall, Sansa felt Jaime drop his arm to his side, which she considered being rather appropriate for such a situation. When her father noticed her enter the room, Sansa saw the gasp he didn’t bother to stifle. Everyone else turned around at the sound and echoed it.

Father walked down to her and looked at her carefully; hand barely touching the bruise. She tried not to flinch. “Sansa…” he said. The next words were more to himself than anyone. “No one strikes my daughter.”

Sansa had been more than prepared to carry out the proceeding, however, Father directed her and Jaime to seats and took the lead himself; standing in front of the Lannisters. “I have been tolerant of your niece since her arrival, but this step is too far,” Father told Lady Genna and Ser Kevan, voice sounding within the hall. “Ignorant at my wife’s funeral; I chose not to act. Breaking the peace repeatedly during the sennight for my family to mourn; recompense within the trade agreement on the terms your niece ceased harassing my children,” he reminded them, anger seeping from his tone.

Father looked her way and exhaled soundly.

“Now, Guest Right?” Father all but shouted. “I see at least your nephew had the sense to attempt preventing the breaking of Guest Right. Had he not, I would direct you to the Reach for your grain and damn the loss of trade for the Riverlands without a second thought!” There was a heavy pause and no one dared to interrupt. “I will accommodate Cersei Lannister no longer,” Father decreed in his anger. “The day is early and House Lannister shall leave. Accept my trade proposal as the agreement stood yesterday or nothing. Haggle with Olenna Tyrell for all I care. House Lannister has overstayed its welcome.”

Ser Kevan and Lady Genna shared a glance, which gave Sansa a bad feeling if she didn’t do something. She was finally seeing Father show the Tully trait of impulsiveness. It wouldn’t help her family if things continued this way.

When she slowly rose to her feet, Father noticed and turned to her. “Sansa? Do you need a maester?”

“I wouldn’t say a maester, Lord Father,” she replied. Meeting his eye, Sansa employed her experience in diplomacy. “May we have a brief word in private?” she requested, feeling the eyes of the elder Lannisters on her back. “Quite brief,” she said more so to placate the Lannisters wounded pride than her angry father.

“Brief,” Father repeated, and led the way to a chamber took little time to reach. “Sansa,” he said slowly, taking her into a gentle hug and planted his lips on her forehead. “The injuries and guards speak for themselves; what could you possibly have to add?”

Glad that Father’s love for her simmered his temper; Sansa gave a squeeze and pulled back from the hug. “Dismissing the Lannisters is in our rights, but do you want the consequences?” she asked, watching her father. “Dismiss them like this and Tywin Lannister will interpret this as a slight; regardless of Lady Cersei’s actions.”

Father sighed and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. The mention of the Lannisters made Father’s eyes become stormy. “Cersei Lannister struck you; my daughter and a breach of Guest Right. I won’t have that girl in Riverrun, Sansa. She is leaving one way or another.”

“I know that, Father. I’d be glad for it honestly,” Sansa said. “However, to punish all of the Lannisters for the actions of one undisciplined girl will strain relations between houses. Send Lady Cersei with one of her relatives instead of the entire family,” she suggested, trying to protect her family from itself. “Dismissing all Lannisters immediately could have negative effects for us in the future; we need peace with the Westerlands.”

Her father thumbed her shoulders while looking into her eyes with deep curiosity. “I won’t allow this incident to go ignored, but you seem to have an idea, daughter.”

Glad to know he was levelheaded enough now to listen, Sansa released a breath and nodded. “I do,” she confirmed confidently. “They need to see we won’t tolerate disrespect. Your trade ultimatum of accepting or rejecting trade as it stands would be punishment, Father,” Sansa said, watching the reactions of her father. “The Reach has a reputation for plentiful quality. Lady Olenna will exploit this and make her goods costly; especially for the richest house of Westeros,” she emphasised the importance the trade agreement had for the Lannisters. “If the Lannisters refuse your trade proposal, not only will it cost them time with the Tyrells, but additional gold for food as well.”

Father blinked at her having this reasoning and adjusted himself in the seat. “I’m surprised by your depth, Sansa, but for what purpose would Ser Kevan and his nephews remain?” he asked her. “Their sole reason was the trade agreement.”

Glad that her father was showing signs of considering her suggestion, Sansa continued on. “If Ser Kevan is given the choice of leaving at a time of his own choosing, it’s unlikely he’ll remark poorly of us to Lord Tywin; even if Ser Kevan decides to leave today. However, Lord Jaime protected me from his sister’s first attempt, Father. He was injured more than I was. That mustn’t go unacknowledged.”

 

GENNA LANNISTER

In the Dining Hall of the Tullys’ castle, Genna glared at her niece while Hoster Tully was with his daughter. Cersei was becoming nothing but increasing trouble since the name Sansa Tully was uttered in Casterly Rock and Lannisport.

When the foolish girl began to hurl cruel words towards the smallfolk to the point that she was developing a reputation, Tywin limited Cersei to the Rock so her absence among the smallfolk would hopefully lead to his daughter’s damage fading with time. However, Cersei turned her jealousy onto the servant who’d dare to utter a whisper about Sansa Tully.

Ever since arriving here, Cersei had taken to offending the Tullys to the point that it was impacting on the trade agreement. The entire purpose of travelling to Riverrun had been to create a cheaper trade agreement than their current one with the Reach; a rather costly food supplier.

Cersei, the stupid thing, had ignored the need to give the Tullys peace for a sennight while they mourned their late mother and wife. Instead, the girl decidedly went and harassed the eldest two daughters to the point that Hoster Tully demanded recompense in return of breaking the agreement for relative silence. Unable to offer anything except for gold or goods, Genna chose to be more lenient concerning the price they were willing to pay for the quantity of food.

Yesterday Genna knew she was getting closer to a price that would satisfy both Tywin and Lord Tully.

Now she was given the ultimatum of accepting a price higher than desirable or leave with no agreement at all.

_What, by the old gods and the new, compelled my niece to break Guest Right? I’d send her to the Silent Sisters and be done with her if she was my daughter._

At the sound of a door opening, Genna saw Hoster Tully reentered the Dining Hall with his second daughter close behind him. The girl obeyed her father’s indication to return to her seat and Genna turned her attention to the Lord of Riverrun. He looked at her nephew for a moment and focused his gaze on Genna and her brother. “It has been brought to my attention that your nephew was knocked onto the stone of the ground floor. In good conscience, I won’t dismiss him from Riverrun until he is recovered and fit for travel. Until such time, he shall remain here but not without members of the family. Your niece, on the other hand, _will_ leave today in the company of either of her guardians, Lady Genna, Ser Kevan.”

_If I can’t have the agreement we wanted, mayhaps I can knock much-wanted sense into the girl._

Stepping forward, Genna looked at Cersei once and met the smouldering eyes of Hoster Tully. “I shall be the one, Lord Tully,” she informed those in the hall. “My apology for Cersei’s shameful act cannot be put into words. I’ll prepare for travel immediately after this discussion.”

The quick cooperation of Genna appeared to have calmed Lord Hoster to a point and he nodded to someone behind the group. “Appreciated, Lady Genna,” he said with lingering anger. “And your decision concerning trade with the Riverlands?” he enquired.

From her brother, Genna saw the nod and turned to Lord Hoster. “House Lannister shall accept the terms of the trade agreement as it stood yesterday, Lord Tully.”

“Good,” he said plainly. “A handmaid has been sent to pack your belongings, Lady Genna. Final documents for the agreement will be drawn before breaking of fast,” Lord Hoster informed them and proceeded towards the doors. “At such time your wheelhouse will be ready for you once you’ve eaten.”

And he was gone.

And Genna couldn’t blame him. Tywin would have lived to the Lannister words had Cersei been struck by a guest.

Turning her attention to the remaining Tully in the hall, Genna observed Sansa Tully while the girl was seated beside Jaime as the Tully maester was evaluating her nephew. Jaime flinching while the man was assessing his head.

She was an interesting fish that one.

Genna knew wits when she saw them.

The girl’s father had been on the edge of sending the entire house away when Sansa Tully asked for a brief word. Roughly five minutes afterwards they returned with one change to Hoster Tully’s decisions.

Only Cersei was to leave in the company of a guardian while the rest stayed.

Lady Sansa had been aware of what almost happened. The girl’s attentive body language stiffened when Hoster’s fury was making itself known in his words. Lady Sansa was far more relaxed now, but still concerned for Jaime; talking to him in low tones that Genna couldn’t hear.

_I’ve seen the way she handles herself. She is not one to rise to the bait, unlike her older sister._

Turning her eyes to Cersei, the cause of so many recent issues, Genna led the idiot to an unused chamber in the guest wing. Surprisingly, Jaime also entered the chamber and took the seat by the window. “Nephew, are you well?”

“The maester says the stone didn't damage my skull, bur I will need to be abed for a while before returning to Casterly Rock,” Jaime explained. He hadn’t sounded to bother by the news. “He said half a moon before travel. Lord Tully plans to provide the wheelhouse to go back.” This time the boy sounded content.

_Interesting…_

Cersei was scowling at the news.

_…your turn, Cersei._

“Cersei,” Genna spoke with clear disappointment. “You were to learn the importance of trade by coming here. Instead, I have to tell your father about your despicable behaviour? The funeral. The sennight of mourning. STRIKING YOUR HOST!” Genna was shaking with fury. “Your father will not stand for these displays! Have you no pride towards our house? You will be by my side until we return to Casterly Rock, and until your father returns from the capital, you will remain by my side. If you must be treated like a child, then so be it, Cersei!”

Genna gestured to Jaime for him to leave. He didn’t deserve to witness this after what he’d done to protect his family from humiliation by Cersei’s hand.

Cersei was seated on the bed’s end and looking up at her aunt with wide eyes. Genna had never shouted at her like this before, and Genna had more to say on the matter. “If you took one moment to think about the consequences of what you do, Cersei, you’d realise just what you’ve done to this family! House Lannister will now be called a jape of a house behind our backs. If the song about your jealousy of Sansa Tully’s beauty wasn’t bad enough, there will be one about Lannisters breaking the laws of Guest Right!” 

Genna didn’t speak to her niece for the rest of the morning unless it was absolutely necessary. The girl seemed more upset about Jaime not travelling with them than the impact of her actions had upon House Lannister.

The breaking of fast was eaten without the company of Tullys or her nephews. Only Kevan was present, but he too didn’t say a word.

Together the siblings signed the trade documents for Hoster Tully to keep, and received one signed by Hoster to be taken to Casterly Rock.

Nodding in farewell to her brother, Kevan, Genna directed Cersei into the wheelhouse before entering herself. The wheelhouse immediately left Riverrun for Casterly Rock.

Watching the girl mope and look back towards Riverrun, Genna sighed.

_By the Gods, Tywin. If your daughter doesn’t cease embarrassing our house and learn common sensibilities, I WILL send the stupid girl to the Silent Sisters!_


	14. Winter is Coming

EDDARD STARK

_Day 11, 1 st moon, 276 AC_

They broke camp shortly after sunrise, eager to bring their journey to an end and finally sleep in a bed. They’d travelled two moons to meet his future goodsister; the betrothed of his thirteen brother. Why they were bringing Ned along, a boy of twelve, he didn’t really understand because he’d been in the Eyrie; fostered by Lord Arryn alongside Robert Baratheon. Robert had remained behind when Mother arrived to retrieve Ned for this journey south.

_Why was it necessary for me to be here?_

When he’d asked Mother, she replied with a question of her own. ‘Can’t a mother miss her son?’

That had been the end of Mother’s answer and he didn’t question her again. It was nice to see her, but he didn’t really see why. Catelyn Tully was to be Brandon’s betrothed, as well as a feast in honour of joining houses; he didn’t really know what his attendance would add to it.

Mother and Brandon making the journey held logic, but why himself and Lyanna, a girl of nine, were included confused him. Mayhaps Lyanna was for her sense of adventure and wild nature. She would carry a sword on her hip if Father ever permitted her.

Packing away the final few things, Ned mounted up as did Brandon, Lyanna and Mother with the Stark retinue followed close by. According to Mother, Father had been opposed to her riding on horseback but after a debate on speed, she convinced Father to let her travel unimpeded by the fancies of a southron woman and their preference of sitting in wheelhouses.

Ned was unsure of what to expect at Riverrun; he’d heard a few stories about acts of dishonour by minor and Great Houses alike towards the Tullys.

_Would something happen during our visit? I pray not._

His thoughts were interrupted by Brandon singing a tone under his breath. Listening for a little while, Ned couldn’t make out what it was and asked. “What are you humming, Brandon?”

Brandon cracked a grin. “Weren’t you listening in the tavern last night, Ned?”

When Ned shook his head, Brandon proceeded to sing it aloud for all to here. Lyanna, behind Brandon, clearly intended to join in.

 

“She’s confused about Guest right.

She thinks it fine to fight.

 

“They say she learned.

But a page was burned.

The maester’s now concerned!

 

“He checks his books!

Takes a look!

Every page is in its place.

Oh Gods, look at Tywin’s face.

 

“Guest right is our custom,

But Cersei’s mind is rustin’.

High-born!

Low-born!

Or in between!

She creates the perfect scene.

 

“The son knows what we mean.

He stands up to intervene.

He takes the blows!

And he’s not too slow!

He protects the sweet sweet lady.

Especially his one true lady.

 

“Turn Cersei away at our behest.

She is not a proper guest.

No, in fact,

She’s a cat.

A lioness…

THE mad Lioness…

THE MAD LIONESS!

OF LANNISTER!”

 

Brandon and Lyanna laughed after hollering the last two lines, but Ned didn’t really find it funny. It spoke of the daughter of a Great House harming people while the son blocked her attempts at hurting a host. Looking ahead at River Road, Ned went to speak but his brother threw him a grin and spoke first.

“Tywin would want to beat something to a pulp if he heard that,” Brandon japed, glancing to Lyanna when she chuckled.

Ned looked to Mother for a moment and saw her disapproving look at Brandon’s back; he took the opportunity to say his piece. “Must you shout? What if someone heard us?”

“Someone has heard you, Stark.”

All four Starks whipped their head towards the voice of a boy Lyanna’s age. Sitting on a horse from a vantage point was the golden-haired boy of nine donned in red and gold.

_Lannister._

_Damn it, Brandon._

Seated on a grey mare beside presumably Jaime Lannister was clearly a Tully girl of eleven at least, and she wasn’t appearing too pleased either.

There was nothing but tense silence between the Stark retinue and the younger boy and girl. Ned hadn’t expected things to have such a bad start with House Tully. The presence of Lannisters was a surprise and he prayed there weren’t too many at Riverrun.

Gods help them if Lord Tywin was present and learnt about this.

The girl who was to be Brandon’s betrothed took Jaime Lannister’s clenched fist and tilted her head in Riverrun’s direction, uttering quiet words. When she released it, Ned watched the boy ride off and wondered what would be waiting for them there.

Would the Tullys look badly upon the insult towards their guest?

_Brandon wants to marry Barbrey Ryswell. He’s complained to me in whispers about Father since the Eyrie._

While they all watched the girl walk her horse to the retinue, Ned didn’t stir too much but fiddled with his reins. Getting caught up in a situation like this was new to him since he was a quiet person without the wolf blood like Brandon and Lyanna. The pair of them looked like they were about to break the silence when the Tully looked at them with hardened eyes that took in their features.

There was judgement in the girl’s eyes when she looked to Lyanna, but he didn’t understand why. Mayhaps she’d expected Lyanna to be a lady; not shouting tavern songs with Brandon.

_What right did she have to judge Lyanna? She’s riding alone with a Lannister boy when she’s to be betrothed to my brother._

When she stared at him, Ned had no idea what he’d done wrong. However, the redhead wasn’t looking with hard, but soft and sad, eyes. He could have sworn she whispered something under her breath.

_Why would she be sad? This is the first time I’ve seen her._

The girl was a living puzzle.

Mother walked her horse forward and Ned thanked the Gods that neither he nor his siblings were going to have to get themselves out of this problem. Southron people liked to speak honeyed words; not plain and to-the-point like the Northmen. Mother would have the best chance of fixing this.  “Lady Catelyn,” Mother said politely. “We apologise for upsetting your guest. Had we known we were close to Riverrun, my son and daughter would have shown more decorum.”

Lady Catelyn took a look at the retinue and returned her gaze to Mother with an expression that wasn’t so hardened. “Men of the North speak plainly, so at this moment I shall speak plainly,” she said firmly, eyes on Brandon and Lyanna. “That song will not be uttered near Riverrun during your stay. At present, Ser Kevan _Lannister_ , Lord Jaime _Lannister_ and Tyrion _Lannister_ are welcome guests and will be treated as such.”

He may be the second son of twelve, but he understood she stressed the name Lannister on purpose.

His eyes went to Brandon and Lya; neither of them looked bothered.

Ned released a breath of relief that the Great Lion was absent, but the girl wasn’t done yet. “Tavern songs will remain in the taverns. This includes anything of disrespect towards the Dornish; Prince Oberyn Martell is another guest and he has less restraint than Lord Jaime when offended. Is this understood? Lord Brandon? Lady Lyanna?”

_Gods, her voice is ice._

Looking at his siblings, he witnessed them utter ‘Yes’ but not looking very contrite. The Tully had noticed but chose to ignore it before she turned to him and Mother. “Lady Stark. Lord Eddard,” she addressed them with a warmer voice. He could have sworn she struggled with his name. “I pray your journey here was without trouble?” she spoke, turning her horse towards Riverrun and began leading the way.

Ned nodded to her while Mother gave a better answer. “Once we were below The Neck, the journey was easier and merely a matter of distance,” she informed the girl. “Prince Oberyn as a guest intrigues me, Lady Catelyn. What brought him to Riverrun?” Mother increased the pace to a canter, riding with ease whilst watching Lady Catelyn.

The girl glanced up at Mother with a hint of amusement. “Lady Stark. I’m unsure if you’ve met my sister. My presence at Riverrun has been a mere few moons.”

Ned watched as Mother seemed to realise something and looked at the girl with surprise. “Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, it was a pleasure to receive your compassionate letter, Lady Stark,” Lady Sansa said genuinely. “The gesture was much appreciated, and I regret to inform you Lady Minisa passed away just over a moon ago. Catelyn and I share the role of Lady Regent for now.”

_You best thank the Gods she’s not your betrothed, brother. The two of you would be miserable. Her formality and your wolf blood would forever clash._

When Mother chose to ride ahead of the retinue trailing behind them, Ned was glad the moment his feet touched the yard of Riverrun; now able to avoid any other dramatics. The tension hadn’t left his body when the two ladies were conversing on the way here.

The castle was larger than Winterfell, but there was no need to keep the heat inside of Riverrun. It was not The North; its ice, snow and chilled wind. Following the servant who guided him through the castle, Ned listened so he could find his way if need be. Upon returning to his chambers, where a tub awaited him, Ned found a letter on his bed.

_Ned Stark,_

_Imagine your sister felt that her betrothed would be a dishonourable husband, and there was an illegitimate child to prove her fears._

_Some women might tolerate such a man, but can you see Lyanna willingly wed a lord like that?_

_With her wolf blood, she’d flee; you know it in your heart._

_If you had the chance to stop the betrothal, would you?_

_-_

Receiving this letter was strange, and truth be told about his sister, Ned could imagine Lyanna fleeing from such a husband. As a girl of nine, she was already strong-willed and desired to carry a sword on her hip. She wouldn't be a woman to settle with a disloyal man; the writer had that much right. He was the Quiet Wolf while Brandon and Lya both had names that spoke of their wild, untamed natures.

With his brother being betrothed to Catelyn Tully, a girl newly twelve, it made him stop from dismissively throwing the letter in the fire. Nine years old and twelve were only a few years apart.

_But why would they write it?_

He stuffed it into a bag for the time being and proceeded to indulge in the comfort of the warm bath. However, he didn't linger for long and went down to the Dining Hall where the Tullys had gathered to properly meet them.

Mother and Brandon were at the end of the table with Lya and himself on either end. The Tullys were seated together like them; Lord Tully and Lady Catelyn centred with the young sons to his right and the daughters beside Lady Catelyn. The age difference between Lord Tully’s sons and daughters made it an odd sight, but Ned kept that to himself.

Served bread and salt, the Starks and Tullys invoked the custom of Guest right; neither group was to intently harm the other during the stay of the Starks. Something that the Lannisters broke three sennights ago and the song about it was spreading like wildfire. It had reached the southron borders of the Vale and no doubt other surrounding kingdoms.

All of Westeros would know about the dishonour done here.

Sharing an expression with Brandon and Lyanna, he could tell similar thoughts had crossed their minds.

The handmaids relieved them of the empty plates and left the hall quietly. He met the eyes of Lord Tully and listened to the lord who was to accommodate them for the next half moon.

“Now that you’re refreshed from the journey, I’d like to properly introduce my family,” Lord Tully said, gesturing to his eldest daughter first. “My eldest daughter, Catelyn. Second and third daughters, Sansa and Lysa.” The girls gave them polite smiles for a moment before Lord Tully turned to his sons. “This is Edmure, and my twin sons, Oswell and Joseth. I pray you find my children to be pleasant company during your stay.”

Ned’s eyes immediately went to Lady Sansa when he remembered the incident on River Road. She’d been unimpressed by Brandon and Lyanna’s singing and he hoped the girl didn’t hold a grudge on behalf of her guest.

There was fiddling where Lyanna was seated.

“Why a Northern name for just one daughter?” his sister asked bluntly. “The others are Riverland names.”

Ned resisted the urge to pull a face.

_Lyanna…_

Watching the Tullys, specifically Lord Tully, in response to the bad question Ned looked at each of the girls searching for a reaction and possible answer. He didn’t see why a chosen name would interest his sister, but the damage was done so he might as well hear the reason. Ladies Catelyn and Lysa were turned towards their father, while the girl in question was staring strangely at his sister.

There was a stretched pause and Ned glanced at Mother wondering why she hadn’t said a word of apology yet. Lyanna should be doing it, but she didn’t seem to have realised she’d upset Lord Tully.

Lord Tully looked solemn and stiff. “It was similar to my wife’s,” he clearly told them. Facing the nursemaids with his babe sons, Lord Tully nodded to them then turned to his daughters. “You each have duties; please see to them, girls.” The girls rose to their feet and left the hall; Sansa looked displeased with Lyanna but it faded as fast as it had appeared.

Earlier it was awkward for Ned when the two houses were initiating Guest right because the words of that song kept repeating themselves in his head. Now, however, it was just plain tense; and not in a good way.

Lord Tully spoke once his children were out of the hall. “I imagine yourself and your own children are exhausted, Lady Stark,” the Lord Paramount told them. “Should you need guidance to the midday meal, your assigned handmaids shall help you.”

Their host left the Dining Hall dignified but clearly unimpressed.

His family and ‘unimpressed’ seemed to be a growing habit today.

“Ned,” said Mother. “You’re the only one not to cause trouble thus far. Go on ahead and explore the castle, but please keep quiet. We don’t want to anger the Tullys any further,” she asked him with leaking frustration. “Brandon. Lyanna,” Mother addressed firmly. “My chambers,” she told them, rising from her seat and leaving the hall. Trailing behind her like pups were his elder brother and younger sister.

They knew Mother wasn’t going to shout. Rather she was going to make them feel foolish for acting out of turn. Before he was fostered with the Arryns, his parents rarely raised their voices and instead made Ned and his siblings tell their own parents what the mistakes had been.

Now on his own in Riverrun, Ned walked through the castle without making his steps sound heavy. Wandering along the battlements, he heard the sound of hooves and impact coming from outside Riverrun and followed it; speculating who the sparring pair could be. It sounded like jousting when he thought about it. Coming down to the yard and across a drawbridge, the boy quickly covered the distance, curious if he would see Blackfish practising; he’d been told the man was a decent fighter.

To his disappointment neither rider was Blackfish, instead it was a Lannister and a Dornishman.

Ser Kevan and Prince Oberyn.

Guests of the Tullys.

Wondering if the Lannister heir had spoken to his uncle about Ned’s siblings shouting the tavern song, he made to leave but jumped out of his skin.

Jaime Lannister was but two paces away and there was a tense moment where they stared at one another. The look coming from the younger boy wasn't hate, but nor was Lord Jaime about to offer his hand to be shaken either.

The Lady Sansa approached the golden-haired boy from behind and stood beside him, breaking the silence for both of them. 

“Lord Eddard, we seem to be having quite the icy meetings today,” she spoke in a diplomatic tone. "Jaime and I know you did not sing that song. And nor did you question my mother’s choice of names so crudely,” said Lady Sansa. “How is it that the second son has better manners than the first son and daughter, my lord?”

There was really only one answer to that. “They both have wolfsblood.”

The Lannister heir raised an eyebrow. “You’re a direwolf. Why aren’t you the same then?” he said disbelieving and made to speak again.

Lady Sansa interjected, beating the lord's son. “It’s a Stark term for passionate personalities in the North, Jaime. Not a jape,” she explained, saving Ned the need to calm the irritated lion. “However, wolfsblood can be dangerous for the person if not tempered with an inquisitive mind.”

That was an interesting thing to say. Was she asking a question or making a remark? He wasn’t sure. “It’s a term, Jaime Lannister,” he confirmed. Feeling awkward from not knowing what to say, he resorted to the scene happening behind him. “Why are they jousting?”

Lady Sansa had an amused smile at the question while Lord Jaime merely rolled his eyes at her and answered. “Prince Oberyn and I have a bet for the Lannisport tourney. If he wins the melee and joust I owe him thirty Dragons, if he doesn’t compete or loses he owes me thirty Dragons.”

Ned stared at the jousters. “Prince Oberyn is determined for a handful of Dragons,” he remarked and turned back to the pair in front of him. “Does he need the practise?”

Jaime Lannister smirked and looked at Lady Sansa with confidence. “He does. Day two First Moon, Viserys Targaryen survived. The tourney to honour him is in two moons.”

The chuckle of a Dornishman made them all jump.

“And you’re dancing with your lady in two moons, Lannister,” he teased the lady and fellow lord.

Lord Jaime retorted out of reflex. “Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Prince Oberyn walked away with his horse behind him, glancing over his shoulder. “Dancing, Lannister.”

Ned watched as Lady Sansa chuckled at the banter and wondered how the three knew each other. Tully and Lannister weren’t that far of a travel, but a Martell was moons of travel by land. “How do you know one another, Lady Sansa?”

“During my journey from Harrenhal, Prince Oberyn was travelling the same path. It was more practical to share supplies than two separate campfires. We talked and I found him interesting. Prince Oberyn is staying at Riverrun until it’s time to travel to Lannisport for the tourney,” she said with a fond smile.

When Lord Jaime uttered a ‘My lady’ in farewell, Ned watched with concern as the heir was appropriating his uncle.

“Lord Eddard,” the girl addressed, drawing his attention back to her. “You needn’t concern yourself about the incident this morning. Jaime Lannister is not a petty person,” she reassured him, half turning and a polite wave for him to follow her back into Riverrun. “What happened is a humiliation to the Lannisters, including Jaime who was injured trying to stop Lady Cersei. He doesn’t deserve to be tormented for an honourable deed. If you could ensure your siblings don’t jape about it, Jaime and I would appreciate it greatly.”

Ned could understand that. Lord Arryn taught him the importance of honour, and if Ned had done something good, only to have his name dragged through the mud, he would be less than happy about the mockery involving his family name.

Looking back at Lady Sansa, he realised she hadn’t said Lord Jaime’s title at least twice. “Lady Sansa, are you betrothed to Lord Jaime?”

Her eyes went wide. “Lord Eddard?” she asked in shocked disbelief.

“You seem close, Lady Sansa,” he told her. Her eyes calmed at his words.

Nodding, Lady Sansa had a fond smile. “He’s a good friend,” she replied softly. For a moment there was silence between them but Lady Sansa broke it. “Considering my age, nearly eleven, it’s likely I’ll be betrothed by year’s end. Father will consider him since Jaime is Lord Lannister’s heir.”

“If Lord Tully did, what would you think?”

“I...well...I don’t know. Not in a bad way at the very least,” she admitted while leading the way to the Dining Hall where everyone was gathering.

Ned couldn’t remember talking with ease to another girl who wasn’t family. And such a topic as betrothals!

_I’m normally shy._

The midday meal went far better than the bread and salt earlier in the day and promised a cheerful feast later.

_Mother must have given Lord Tully a good apology or made Lyanna say it to him._

 

CATELYN TULLY

With the assistance of Sansa and Lysa in organising tonight’s feast and continued chambers upkeep for Father’s attending vassals, Catelyn was feeling excited the Starks were finally here. It had been a trial to remain patient regarding the Starks after days of torment at the hands of Cersei Lannister.

She didn't truly understand why the male Lannisters remained at Riverrun after the heir having evidently healed to the point he was permitted to ride, however, the younger boy's company seemed to make Sansa happy, which Catelyn told Father. Jaime Lannister appeared pleased that he was here with the exception of missing his aunt.

At the beginning of Sansa joining the Tully family, Catelyn hadn't been too fond of Sansa to put it very mildly. The girl had everything that made a perfect lady; wits, undeniable beauty, and a composure that needed the worst of scenarios to break. Catelyn hadn't seen beyond the blood resemblance as to why Sansa should be part of the family.

It was difficult unlearning the stringent followings of the book _The Seven-Pointed Star_ , however, Uncle Brynden had taken Catelyn aside and spoken to her at length how the words of the septa were a guide to life, not the absolutes of life. That discussion was a bitter remedy for Catelyn to swallow, and truth be told there were still parts of the septa's book that remained tightly wedged in their place of Catelyn’s mind.

When Uncle Brynden outright told her to 'cease being a jealous bitter brat' Catelyn denied it, but after his question of what was she then Cat had no words and knew at that moment he had the right of it.

She had been jealous of this perfect lady that looked like her, prettier than her, who came to Riverrun and was instantly made a family member that everybody loved; Mother immediately accepted the girl into her heart.

Her learnings that bastards were lustful baseborns with little self-control or concern about others had thoroughly been destroyed recently. Sansa had taken measures to protect her and Lysa from Lady Cersei’s cruelty. During the visit of that despicable girl, Catelyn secretly struggled to shake off the words Lady Cersei did manage to say to her in Sansa’s occasional absence. However, the newest Tully daughter let them wash over her like water from a trout's body instead of recklessly lashing back at their guest, which Cat had been expecting.

It was from Sansa's show of strength that enabled Catelyn to ensure she still could properly contribute towards the Lady of Riverrun duties; making it possible for Riverrun to remain in an orderly manner during that difficult time.

Catelyn still remembered Lady Cersei’s final morning at Riverrun; Sansa and Lord Jaime were out riding together as had become their routine when Lady Cersei pounced on the opportunity to test what remaining strength and control Cat had to resist the harm of the insults. At her wit's end after the stream of offensive remarks claiming Mother to have been a weak woman, Catelyn saw Sansa approach with hatred burning from her eyes. The more beautiful Tully interjected herself into the problem and with subtle wit turned Lady Cersei’s insult back onto the Lannister while giving Cat a chance to get help.

But she hadn't missed the way Sansa was struck yet remained dignified; swiftly and with confidence sending the retrieved guards where needed and bringing Cersei Lannister’s tyranny to an end.

It was humbling to experience. Especially after it was learnt that Lord Jaime suffered an injury to protect Sansa from his own sister.

Since then matters between Cat and Sansa were of mutual respect, despite the unclear past of Sansa. After particularly kind acts, Catelyn referred to Sansa gratefully, and for the most part called her by name, not bastard; she didn’t feel ready to fully see her as a true sister yet and say the word. The blood relation was there, but Catelyn’s mind struggled after Mother's death and the ordeal called Cersei Lannister.

But now, Sansa was acting strangely.

She appeared distracted around all of the Starks except Lord Eddard, near whom her eyes turned pained. Catelyn knew Sansa well enough to see the difference, but otherwise, there were no significant hints of Sansa’s discomfort that the Starks or Father would notice. When available, Sansa, who Cat wasn't ready to call sister, could be found speaking with Lady Stark, who seemed equally interested in Sansa as Sansa was in her. However, as a courtesy, Lady Stark didn’t favour Sansa over Cat when they were together; she was to become Catelyn’s goodmother after all.

The initial meeting of her betrothed’s family hadn’t gone too well after Lady Lyanna questioned Mother’s choice of Sansa’s name; Mother hadn't made Sansa change it. Father did not take the question kindly and quickly concluded the invoking of Guest Right by sending Cat, Sansa and Lysa to attend managing the handmaids assigned to serving each of Father’s vassals.

Once finished, for the time being, each Tully had gone on her way and Catelyn had sought out Brandon Stark, her betrothed.

They walked the halls and battlements together talking and sharing stories. Brandon was very confident in himself, tall and a very capable fighter should she ever need to be protected. Swordplay and hunting weren’t the only things he knew, such as times when Lord Rickard had tasked him with solving a dispute as a lord. He was also handsome and combining that with everything else, it made Catelyn feel he would be a very good match for her when they eventually wed later on.

Well after the the midday meal, Catelyn was making her way to retrieve a list from the Lady’s solar when she passed the twins’ nursery and heard someone sobbing inside. Pushing the door the rest of the way open, Catelyn stood there shocked for a moment before she recollected herself and closed the door completely behind her.

Seated beside the bassinettes and leaning forward with her hands covering her eyes was Sansa.

Cat was lost of what to do; Sansa had never lost her composure so badly in front of Catelyn before. She’s cried at the funeral but still well controlled. This, however, made the grief at the funeral seem like a drop in the ocean. Simply seeing this was tearing at Cat’s heart.

Quietly crossing the nursery, Catelyn leaned down and lifted a semi-cooperative Sansa by the shoulders and took the girl into a hug, and rested the side of her head softly against Cat’s.

This was nothing like the strong, confident, composed, witty girl she knew. What could have possibly happened to bring her to such a state?

Not Petyr. Not Cersei. Not even Cat’s earlier words. None of that had ever caused Sansa to hide and cry sounding so grieved.

Sansa had once cried in earnest but it had been such a happy moment for the girl; she’d been with Mother roughly a moon before childbed.

Right now, Sansa  - no, her sister – was as tearful as that time, but the sobs Cat could hear sounded like the cries of a wounded animal wishing for an end to its pain.

Tightening the hold a little, Cat held her sister close and ran a hand along Sansa’s back, gently rocking them on the spot to provide what comfort she could.

“Sansa?”

Cat could feel her shake against her.

“You can tell me, Sansa. Just tell me what you can,” she tried to coax words from her. “It’s alright.”

Her sister’s breath shuddered and she started crying in earnest again. “Mother, I..I miss..”

Cat rested a hand against Sansa’s temple and held her while the girl shook. “We all miss Mother, Sansa.”

For some time Sansa was whispering words so softly that Catelyn only heard a few of them. “…my fault…killed…here but…but not…so stupid…”

“Sansa,” Catelyn said close to her ear. “You are not stupid. You’ve never _been_ stupid. I was a jealous, bitter girl.”

Taking a breath, Catelyn readied herself because she knew Sansa needed something to make her feel…safe, mayhaps? Just…something.

“You’re my sister.”

It felt right for some reason.

 

SANSA STARK

“You’re my sister, Sansa.”

_Catelyn?_

_What?_

_But…_

Their hold was tight but the kind you buried yourself into. Sansa’s eyes were closed with the murder at the Sept of Baelor replaying in her mind.

Seeing him again had brought back memories of what she’d been suppressing for moons. The bitter hate of Catelyn had made separating her from Catelyn Stark easier because she was so different to the mother Sansa once had. The Eddard Stark of now was so alike to the father who'd raised her. There'd been no distinction for her to use and her heart bled as a result.

_Mother, Father, Robb, Jon, Arya, Bran, Rickon._

“I mean it, Sansa. You are my sister.”

_You’re right, Cat._

“I was too jealous for too long.”

Taking a breath, Sansa slowly untangled herself from Cat and stared at her in disbelief.

“I’m not lying, Sansa. I do mean it.”

Nodding, Sansa kept her hands on Cat’s shoulders to keep herself steady. “I believe you, Cat,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Cat brought a hand to her eyes and wiped away some remaining tears. “Sansa, I know you loved Mother. We all did.”

_Gods, have I said something?_

“Sansa, what happened?” Cat asked, moving the loose hair to sit on her back. “Has someone touched you?”

Taking the seat nearby, Sansa looked into the worried eyes of Cat. “No,” she told her.

“Anyone at all?”

“No one from any station, Cat,” she insisted, hoping to prevent unwarranted trouble. “I swear. No one touched me.”

“Good, but Sansa…I’ve never seen you cry like that,” Cat persisted, leading her to the door and quickly crossing the hall into Sansa’s chambers. Sitting Sansa on the bed, Cat raided the wardrobe and pulled out a beautiful dress.

“We all cry eventually,” she tried to disperse the topic.

“When you need me, I’ll listen alright?” Cat offered, coming over with a few items of deep blue. “Let’s get you changed.”

“Cat, what are you doing?” Sansa asked when Catelyn was positioning her behind a screen. She saw the dress be carried over. “Catelyn, you’re not a handmaid.”

“I’d rather do it anyway.” Not fighting Catelyn, Sansa let her loosen the laces before leaving the screen to retrieve the deep blue dress. “You’d look beautiful in this.”

Sansa took a good look at Cat and tried to understand why she was doing this. “Cat, this is your betrothal feast. Why are you going to lengths to help me?”

Catelyn didn’t answer and merely gestured to the dress before Sansa surrendered and started changing into it; letting Cat do the laces at the back, add the adornments into her hair and doing the small braids along her sides that Sansa favoured. Looking proud of Sansa’s appearance, Cat took her hand and led her to the looking glass. “Yes, it’s my betrothal feast, but why should I be the only pretty girl?”

Cat turned her chin and was looking at her eyes for a minute but seemed satisfied. “Cat, what’s going on?” Sansa asked, trying to understand what was going through Cat’s mind. “What about Lysa?”

“I’m helping a sister who needed help, and Lysa is already prepared,” Cat told her with no room for negotiation. “The staff know what they need to do and when it’s time we’ll find Lysa and go to my feast together.”

Looking into the looking glass, Sansa had to admit that the way that Catelyn dressed her was indeed very beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel she would be upstaging Cat at the feast. Determined not to affect Cat’s feast like that, Sansa turned to Cat who was calling her ‘sister’ now. That was still a surprise to properly grasp.

“Catelyn?”

“Yes, Sansa?”

“I feel quite sure that you have a better dress in your wardrobe than the one you’re wearing.”

“Mayhaps…”

Sansa knew that tone. It was the same one that Arya used when she didn’t particularly want to do something right now but knew she would have to at one point, but it was said in a more ladylike way by Cat. Glad that Cat admitted that there was a greater or equally beautiful dress she was planning to wear, Sansa made her decision.

“Get it and come back, Cat,” Sansa told her with a small smile. “I can do southron braids if you wish.” Sansa had done it enough times in King’s Landing that it would be difficult for there to be one she wouldn’t be able to do. “And bring Lysa,” she added. “If we’re going to surprise Father, the Starks and the vassals, it’s best that all three Tully daughters look their best.”

Cat did, in fact, do as Sansa had asked and the three girls spent the remaining time preparing for Cat’s betrothal feast.

Lysa asked that her hair was done in a southron braid, which Sansa provided with deft hands, but otherwise, Lysa was already in a beautiful dress; seeing her at this younger age made Lysa look prettier than what Sansa had seen from memory in the Eyrie. It was a nice change from what Sansa remembered.

Once Lysa’s braid was complete, the rest of the time was spent on making Cat look as stunning as possible. Sansa was determined that the betrothal feast wouldn’t be ruined by remarks from guests and vassals alike making comparisons of who was meant to be the betrothed daughter. This wasn’t a wedding where the bride was to be the most beautiful woman in the chamber. However, in Sansa’s eyes, the feast needed its purpose to be the most eye-catching person in the hall.

She would not fail.

Shortly after Sansa completed the finishing touches for Catelyn, there was a knock at the door and a handmaid informed them that it was the time that they went down to the Dining Hall.

Looking over to Lysa, Sansa gestured for her to stand in the way of the looking glass. She wanted her efforts to be a surprise to even Catelyn herself.

The journey down the halls to the Dining Hall had been an amusing affair once it became apparent that Cat suspected Sansa had put in more effort than strictly necessary and wanted to see the result for herself. However, Cat had the sense not to touch Sansa’s work and was forced to wait until they passed a full-length reflective surface so she could see what Sansa had done.

Her elder sister gaped once she did and the look in Cat’s eyes was more than completely worth the commitment Sansa had made. The work ensured that Catelyn would stun the people in the hall while Sansa and Lysa would be pretty girls on either side of her.

Entering the Dining Hall drew gasps and whispers from the crowd within, and throughout the night Sansa felt her pride swell when Catelyn had the attention of the majority of people in the room.

During the dancing, Oberyn took the liberty of asking for her to join him and Sansa was convinced he was showing off, luckily for Sansa’s feet she knew the moves and had grace. Later on, when Sansa was dancing with the last vassal’s son who’d been waiting for a first dance with her, she spotted Oberyn sitting next to a watching Jaime and whispered something in his ear before leaving to find another dancer.

Suspecting that Oberyn was tormenting Jaime, Sansa was walking over to the prince in irritation when she heard her name.

“Sansa,” spoke a familiar voice.

Turning around was unnecessary for she would recognise that voice any day. She heard it every morning.

“May I have this dance?” Jaime asked with his hand out towards her.

“Oberyn pressured you into this, didn’t he?” she said moving her hand with deliberate slowness so he could pull away.

Jaime shook his head. “He tried, but no. I saw what the other boys were like; crushing their partners’ toes,” he denied. “I thought you’d like it if yours weren’t.”

Touched, Sansa smiled at the thoughtfulness. “You’d do that for me? Willingly?”

“Aye. Knights do knightly things; even toes,” he replied, taking her hand.

Sansa chuckled at the answer and let him lead her to the floor. “Thank you, Jaime. You have no idea how many times it’s happened already.”

“I might.”

“You watched my feet?” she asked doubtfully.

“No,” was the answer, making Sansa laugh. “You hide it well, but I do recognise a dancer in pain.”

Deciding to stop talking before things got awkward, Sansa followed his lead and found he was quite skilled as a dancer.

“You’re surprised,” he remarked during their third dance. Jaime kept Sansa to himself and away from the other boys. Some weren’t too happy about it.

 Sansa decided to speak her mind. “I thought you hated dancing. What you said about Casterly Rock.”

“I don’t _hate_ dancing. It’s the constant talk about boring things or House Lannister,” Jaime said with exasperation. “Or them crushing my feet; you haven’t stepped on mine once.”

“Do you know how long you’ll be staying at Riverrun?” Sansa asked politely.  “I dread the day you leave.”

“The tourney is in two moons. So a moon at the latest, mayhaps? I don’t know, Uncle Kevan never gave an answer.”

For the rest of the night, Sansa stayed by Jaime’s side and as his dance partner until Ser Kevan deemed it late and took Jaime to the guest wing; the knight bidding Sansa a good night before leaving with his nephew.

At the end of the feast, Cat turned to Sansa. “Sansa, I don’t know what to say…”

“You helped me when I needed it most,” replied Sansa. “You’re welcome, sister.”

 Catelyn smiled. “Sisters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was no way I was going to miss the chance of exploiting that feast for a moment of Jaimsa. Although they're still friends at this point.


	15. Sly and Sweet

SANSA STARK

_Day 12, 1 st moon, 276 AC_

The morning after the feast for her sister’s betrothal, Sansa was in the toddler nursery with Jaime; each of them holding their respective brother.

Sansa had welled guilt about her little brothers lately. There was always something happening that kept her too busy to look after them for a little while instead of the nursemaids. With Oswell and Joseth being only a couple of moons old, she’d at least been able to go to their nursery briefly and give them both some of her love for them.

Edmure, on the other hand, was a different story.

Over the age of one and beginning to need more attention than his babe brothers, she hadn’t been able to pay him brief visits because it would have upset the little boy if she left so soon after arriving. He was starting to better understand who was his family and desired to be with them. Cersei’s visit to Riverrun had severely impacted on the time she could come and play with him, and now that Father’s vassals were returning to their own castles Sansa finally had time to truly be with little Edmure.

Looking to Jaime, Sansa nodded and followed him out of the nursery to go for their morning ride.                                                

She felt a little unsure whether Edmure was old enough to be taken with her. “Jaime,” Sansa spoke once she was beside him as they traversed the halls. “Are you sure he’s old enough to come along?”

“Yes,” he replied with confidence. “I did this when Tyrion was Edmure’s age,” Jaime reassured her. “No faster than trotting.”

Sansa understood the reasoning behind that, adjusted Edmure to a better hold and pecked his cheek which made him giggle. “Could you tell me how to do it once we start? I’d dread to injure him.”

“Don’t worry, Sansa. If you can gallop a horse, you can hold onto Edmure at a trot. He’ll be fine.”

She glanced at Jaime nervously, who just smiled back at her. “Sorry.”

Jaime just chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t be. Let’s go before they get restless.”

Together they walked out to the family stables where the Tully horses were kept; Jaime’s chestnut was actually Uncle Brynden’s horse, who didn’t mind it being used so early in the day. He was grateful for it being regularly exercised in fact.

The pair weren’t far away when Jaime seemed to notice something and pulled Sansa over to the gardens and pointed towards the stall of Sansa’s horse; Grey Grace, the mare gifted to Sansa from Mother when Oswell and Joseth were in her belly. It was the horse Sansa rode every morning in tribute to Mother and as her normal horse.

From where they were hiding, Sansa could see that Grey Grace was saddled and ready to be ridden, but there was someone inside the stall trying to undo the knot Oberyn had taught Sansa. Only them and the stable boys knew how to undo it. Watching carefully, it didn’t take Sansa long to realise who it was, the likeness to Arya gave it away. “Lyanna,” Sansa said. “Just what does she think she’s doing with my horse?” she whispered indignantly.

It was obvious and soon proven true when Lyanna grew frustrated with the knot and resorted to cutting the leather. Leading Sansa’s horse out of the stall, she mounted up.

Jaime was about to rise from where he was crouching beside her when Sansa put a hand on his shoulder. He stopped and looked at her. “Sansa, that’s your mother’s horse,” he said looking ready to stop Lyanna.

Indeed. It had been Mother’s horse and was Sansa’s. Sansa had a few choices of what she could do about Lyanna blatantly taking a horse from the Tully stables. Firstly, she could storm over there and demand that the girl dismount and use one of the regular horses from the other stables instead. Secondly, she could let the arrogant girl ride the horse while Sansa informed Lady Stark of the transgression. Thirdly…well, thirdly Sansa could teach her a lesson and have Lady Stark find out without Sansa having to say a word to either of them.

“I know what she’s doing,” Sansa murmured, watching Lyanna ride off on Grey Grace. “However, I have something in mind for this,” she told him, rising from her place once Lyanna passed through the eastern drawbridge. When sure the girl was gone, Sansa proceeded to lead the way over to that very same drawbridge.

“Jaime?” Tyrion said from where Jaime held him. “She stole a horse?”

“Aye, Tyrion,” he replied. “Lyanna Stark.”

“Lyanna Snark?”

At the mispronunciation, Sansa coughed a laugh and wished Tyrion had said that in front of Lyanna so she could have seen her reaction to it.

Putting Edmure down, she turned to Jaime. “Could you hold his hand?”

“Of course,” he replied and doing just that while Sansa went over to the detailed roping for the bridge. “Sansa, what are you doing?” he asked curiously and a bit confused.

Looking over her shoulder at Jaime, she gave him a smirk and pulled out her sharpest knife, Dusk; the one she’d been gifted in Braavos. Going to each bundle of rope, she proceeded to deliberately sabotage each group to the point where they could still function, but would soon need replacing.

Once done with her work, she turned to him and picked up Edmure, and led the way to her next step. “I may be a lady, Jaime, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to tolerate such disrespect,” she murmured to him and doing her best to keep her fury at Lyanna out of her voice; Jaime was not the guilty one. “The knot should have told her the horse belonged to someone.” He nodded to her but was clearly unaware of what she was going to do. “Let alone that it was in the family stables.”

He understood that much but was wondering why she was doing what she did. “And putting cuts in the rope is going to do what exactly?”

Feeling determined to put the girl in her place, Sansa lowered Edmure beside Jaime once more and gestured for him to remain where he was. No one would see those three. “I’ll show you,” she said and walked off towards the guards standing inside the eastern gatehouse. “Good morrow.”

“Lady Sansa, does the Lord have a command for us?” the higher ranked guard asked her with respect.

Not intent on getting Father tangled in her plot, Sansa shook her head. “Not my father, but the records show that the ropes for this bridge are due to be replaced. Could you raise the bridge and begin fixing them?” she asked kindly, playing the part of a sweet kind lady.

The men exchanged a look of concern. “And what of Lady Lyanna?” the one of the left asked. Sansa tilted her head as though in silent question. “She passed through not long ago and wasn’t packed for travel,” the other elaborated in a respectful tone.

Sansa gave the men a placating smile. If this worked, Lyanna would be absent to the point of being noticed and Lady Stark would want answers from her daughter. “I feel quite confident that you both will have the matter resolved before Lady Lyanna returns,” Sansa reassured with a gentle face but observant eyes. “To my knowledge, she is an avid horse rider and will likely be exploring the area for some time.” The guards were beginning to relax at this additional information and nodded in acknowledgement of her order.

Returning to Jaime and the boys, Sansa picked up Edmure and proceeded to lead the way to the stables containing horses anyone from the castle could use. Giving the stables boys a request for two horses, Sansa turned when Jaime said her name. “Sansa, I can’t believe you just did that,” he laughed, smirking in the direction of the eastern drawbridge. “And I don’t blame you.” He told her. “She was always humming that stupid song when you or Lady Stark weren’t nearby.”

“Unbelievable,” Sansa said. “I told the Starks that insulting songs or japes would not be tolerated at Riverrun, but she did it anyway.” She met Jaime’s eyes and irritation was bubbling just below his skin. “How disrespectful and self-centred can that girl be?” she asked rhetorically.

Taking a breath and releasing it, Sansa looked back to Jaime who looked angry upon hearing the rules about songs and japes. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Sansa raised an eyebrow and tilted her head towards the raised bridge. “She got what she wanted,” she told him casually, causing him to smirk. “But mayhaps more than she had in mind? And she’ll get in trouble for the absence no doubt.”

At that comment, Jaime was looking at her as though he was about to start laughing; that Lyanna got her just desserts. Pity for Jaime stirred within Sansa; he did the good deed of trying to protect his family from Cersei’s jealous rage, and now his house name was mocked frequently. It was with a determined mind that Sansa held Edmure against her stomach once she was mounted on the horse brought out for her to use; Jaime was holding Tyrion likewise.

A little nervous about doing this despite all of Jaime’s reassurances that all would be well, Sansa nudged her horse into a trot once they passed the western drawbridge. Beside her was Jaime with Tyrion on the front of the saddle.

“That’s it, Sansa,” Jaime encouraged. “Your hold is good.”

Sansa turned to Jaime and gave a weak smile in thanks, but her attention was drawn away from him by the shine of sunlight on armour.

 Approaching them was Oberyn, mounted on his own horse with a lance in one hand. Nodding to them as they passed him, Oberyn made to continue his own business before calling out to her. “Where’s Grey Grace, Sansa? You always ride her,” he said, sounding confused. Sansa turned around in the saddle and saw the expression he always had before a jape. “Did someone steal your horse?”

“Yes, but no,” Sansa replied and saw his surprise. “I let them.”

Oberyn had a look of disbelief. “She’s is a well-bred horse, Little lady,” he pointed out. “Why?”

Jaime would have fallen upon the neck of his horse hadn’t he needed to keep a good hold on Tyrion. The sound of laughter coming from him made Oberyn glance at Sansa in question, but she just watched as Jaime continued laughing to the point he was almost tearful. Eventually, he had enough control to answer for Sansa. “Lyanna Stark will be stuck on the eastern side of the Red Fork for hours,” Jaime explained, wiping away a tear. “Sansa basically locked her out of Riverrun,” he practically cheered. “Eastern drawbridge-“

Jaime went into another bout of laughter and Oberyn looked over to Sansa, raising his eyebrow. “Well, well, well,” he said, leaning back in his saddle and taking a good look at her. “Never did I believe you capable of such things, Sansa.” Had the words come from another person, Sansa would have feared it was a scolding, but from Oberyn is sounded almost like praise.

Pretending that his comment had been of a displeased parental figure, Sansa gave a contrite expression when she spoke. “Sorry to disappoint you, Prince Oberyn.”

Snorting, Oberyn shook his head in mirth. “Disappointed?” he repeated in humour. His look turned mischievous and pleased. “No,” he said. “Proud, Little lady.”

“She deserves it,” Jaime commented, garnering interest from Oberyn.

“Oh?” He was observing them both with watchful and amused eyes. “Revenge, are we?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “Aye.”

Sansa, on the other hand, was a little slower in answering. “I wouldn’t call it revenge.”

Oberyn laughed and raised an eyebrow. “No? What would you call it, sweet Sansa?”

“Harmless inconvenience.”

In response to her innocent tone, Oberyn and Jaime both broke out into laughter. Jaime was almost tearful when Oberyn managed to speak. “Not a word shall leave my lips,” he promised, winking at them. “Have fun.” He was about to urge his horse away when he stopped and turned to Jaime and Sansa. “If we were in Dorne, I’d suggest leaving a severed snake head in her bed,” the prince remarked; something in the way that Oberyn had said it gave Sansa the impression he’d done such a thing.

She wouldn’t put it past him.

Prince Oberyn left to practice jousting and Sansa led the way down River Road towards Riverside, Jaime riding beside her with a giggling Tyrion sitting in front of him. Looking down at Edmure, Sansa could see that the little boy was truly enjoying the sights around them while they rode.

Jaime hummed thoughtfully and Sansa looked his way. “I still haven’t forgotten about that song her and Brandon Stark shouted,” he commented, glancing at Sansa he quirked a smirk. “How about leaving dung in her brother’s bedchamber?”

As tempting as it would have been to get revenge on both of the wolfbloods for singing that song when Sansa wasn’t near and ignoring her instructions for their stay, Sansa shook her head. It would have made a pleasing day, but logic and reason had other ideas. “Too obvious,” Sansa objected, watching as the town was coming into sight. “If something happens to both of them on the same day, we’d be suspected,” she said, leading her mount over to the tavern where she could tie it.

Taking the spare space beside her, Jaime took Edmure into his arm beside Tyrion and held the Tully boy while she got off. Accepting him back, Sansa also took Tyrion so Jaime could get down easily. Looking at his brother fondly, Jaime took hold of Tyrion’s hand and followed her lead. “That’s true,” he admitted with a hint of disappointment. Turning to her while the toddlers were staring at the houses around them, Jaime had a determined expression. “Next time you’re doing something sly, it’s her brother’s turn.” He told her and Sansa couldn’t agree more.

She was a little reserved about inconveniencing the Starks for a second time though. They had managed to fool Lyanna and they had an alibi here in Riverside, but Sansa was unlikely to fulfil such a thing unscathed a second time.

Jaime and Sansa, walked through Riverside at the pace set by Tyrion and Edmure, watching on as their younger brothers enjoyed taking in the sights and smells not common back at Riverrun. Jaime seemed content with watching Tyrion explore the town while they walked in companionable silence.

It was interrupted by the excited voice of a little boy. “Good morrow, Lady Sansa!” he greeted, coming over to them from his mother’s house.

Kneeling down so they were eye level, Sansa gave him a smiled while keeping one eye on Edmure. “Good morrow, little one,” she replied kindly, ruffling his hair. Edmure touching her arm; she gave Edmure’s cheek a kiss and took his hand.

The boy looked over Sansa’s shoulder. “Who’s your friend, Lady Sansa?” he said with curiosity.

He hadn’t explained who he was referring to, so Sansa assumed he meant Jaime who was standing nearby.  “Lord Jaime,” she told him. “He wants to be a knight.”

The little boy’s face just lit up and the smile was so innocent that it was contagious. “A knight?” he repeated back to her and approached Jaime. “Like the brave ones who protect people?” he asked Jaime, eyes full of admiration and excitement.

Watching Jaime, Sansa witnessed Jaime’s surprise at the smallfolk boy’s desire to talk about it. “Yes,” the heir said, glancing at Sansa looking unsure, but she just nodded and his stiff posture disappeared. With a little more ease and evident confidence, Jaime elaborated with brightness in his green eyes, a smile slowly emerging. “I want to protect the innocent and defend the weak.”

“Like the real ones!” he crowed, drawing the attention of passing people. This conversation was doing Jaime some good; he was completely at ease now and Sansa wished she could stay all day just to watch this. “Do you know any?” the little boy asked, touching Jaime’s arm without thought, but Jaime didn’t seem to mind.

Tyrion answered for Jaime, only a pace or so away. “Ser Kevan is uncle,” Tyrion said in a matter-of-fact way.

The smallfolk boy had a huge grin and looked at Jaime. “Wow, is he good?” he asked enthusiastically.

Jaime’s smile was a full one now and Sansa couldn’t be happier they’d visited the town. “Uncle Kevan is very good,” he answered, voice and body lively yet relaxed. “He teaches me how to use my sword sometimes.”

The excitement from the boy was almost palpable; he was nearly bouncing on his feet. “Can I meet him?”

“Uh-“

Sansa could see Jaime’s sudden discomfort and she intervened with the first opportunity. “Sweetling,” she said softly, able to see the mother watching not far away. “I think your mother wants you to break your fast.”

The boy looked over his shoulder and saw his mother nodding to Sansa’s words. “Oh,” he said, turning to leave but turned back to Jaime for a moment. “When you’re a knight will you come back?”

Sansa’s heart became so soft at the sight. Jaime took the boy’s hand and nodded. “I will,” he promised, a smile on his face once more. “What is your name? It takes years to be knighted.”

“Willem. I am Willem.”

“In a few years when my name is Ser Jaime, I’ll come to Riverside and find you,” he suggested to the boy. “Would you like that?”

“Yes!!”

“Then I shall.”

Sansa could see the mother was waiting for her son, but not interrupting what was clearly a happy moment for Will and Jaime. Sansa put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, hating to end this. “Willem,” she murmured, drawing his gaze. “Jaime will come, but your mother’s waiting for you,” she reminded him.

He looked at his mother again and held out his hand to be shaken by Jaime. “Bye, Ser Jaime.”

“Goodbye, Willem.”

And the boy ran home.

Jaime was wistful and she didn’t speak as she led the way back to the tavern; Edmure in her arms and Tyrion holding Jaime’s hand. Once beside their horses, and quickly offered assistance by some smallfolk, Sansa, now in the saddle holding Edmure, turned to Jaime and saw he was ready. “Let’s go. We don’t want to miss breaking of fast.”

It was but a second after they were trotting to Riverrun that there was a glint in Jaime’s eye and she knew what he was thinking. Chuckling quietly, Sansa shook her head and proceeded to tickle Edmure with the hand not holding him.

“Sa’sa!” Edmure said as he squirmed against her, giggling. “Tickles! Tickles, Sa’sa!”

Being merciful, she stopped and planted a kiss in his hair; taking a proper grip on the reins once more.

“You know, Sansa,” Jaime said offhandedly. “If you did that for much longer, he’d make water and need changing.”

Edmure was a handful when changing and she pulled a face at the thought. Jaime cracked up, the happy expression reminding her of what happened in Riverside. Riverrun wasn’t far away now. “You looked so happy talking with that boy; Willem,” she commented, thinking about the scene.

Jaime looked at her and nodded. “I do want to be a knight,” he said seriously. “I want to protect people like him and Tyrion, Sansa.”

She could resist the soft smile she gave him. “I think it’s admirable that you care so much about Tyrion.”

“Of course I do,” he told her. Looking down at his little brother, Jaime gave him a gentle squeeze. “You’re my brother, aren’t you?” he asked Tyrion.

Tyrion nodded and had his hands on Jaime’s which held him. “Jaime’s my brother too.”

Entering the yard, Sansa accepted the help from the stable boys and had Edmure on her hip so enough. “I hope to hear Oswell and Joseth say that one day,” she confided in Jaime beside her. Jaime just chuckled and she wasn’t sure why. “Jaime?”

“Don’t you mean ‘sister’?”

The mistake was so obvious to her now and her face flushed but she pushed it down. “Oh pray forgive me,” she said in mock regret. “Such a terrible mistake to make, Lord Jaime.”

“Sa’sa sister,” Edmure said, snuggled into her side.

A smile emerged when she looked at him. “Thank you, Edmure.”

Jaime simply laughed again. “See?” he remarked, his earlier point proven true.

“You smell of horse, Jaime. Go and bathe,” Sansa told him.

Jaime scoffed. “And you smell of roses?”

It was tempting to laugh and she tried to fight it. "Yes, now go.” A small laugh still escaped her lips.

“Ah,” a familiar voice interrupted; Oberyn walking towards them with his self-assured stride and easy smile. “So much laughter.”

“Good morrow, Oberyn,” she bid him.

Oberyn was about to answer, but Tyrion spoke first. “Sansa Tulllee stink like horse.”

Sansa glared at Jaime and Oberyn, daring them not to laugh, but the yard was filled their amusement.

“Jaime stink like horse too,” Tyrion added with the innocence of a child. Oberyn looked to Jaime and held no restraint in his reaction.

Jaime gave Tyrion an annoyed look. “Traitor.”

“Truth!”

Sansa coughed to tried and smother her laughter, but once Oberyn was lost to the world she had to use the wall for support when she couldn’t hide it any more.

“Oh, it’s not that funny…”

Regaining control of herself, Sansa replied like a lady. “I’ll see you at breaking of fast, Jaime.” The hint of laughter lingered.

Obeyrn regained control of himself. “You two do realise I’m never forgetting this?” the prince told them, the wide grin for all to see.

“Gods have mercy,” she muttered, but she knew it would be pointless.

Jaime was less diplomatic. “Go practise your jousting, Martell.”

Neither of them seemed to have deterred Oberyn from his amusement. “Mayhaps I should tell Elia?” he remarked with a look of mischief. Sansa had a bad feeling.

“Don’t you dare, Oberyn!”

“What she said!”

Oberyn just smirked at the pair of them. “I will tell Elia,” he told them and walked off without looking back. Sansa could hear him chuckling.

“Oberyn!” they shouted in unison. Sansa turned her focus to Jaime as the prince laughed from somewhere beyond their sights.

Jaime turned to her. “Why are we friends with him again?”

“I can’t remember, Jaime,” she replied in an equal manner. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Until breaking of fast, Sansa.”

Going to her chambers, Sansa found her warm tub ready as always and bathed Edmure first, returning him to the nursery shared with Tyrion, placing him on the floor by his toys.

“Loff, Sa’sa.”

It made her smile. “I love you too, Edmure.”

Giving him a kiss on the cheek, Sansa took a moment to look at Edmure’s happy face and left the chamber with that picture in her mind. Returning to her chambers and divesting her riding clothes swiftly, Sansa got into the water before it began losing too much warmth.

Clean and freshly dressed, Sansa went down to the Dining Hall and took her place, choosing her food from the plates on the table. Oberyn sauntered over to her with a rather smug look and slipped her a piece of parchment with the seven-pointed star drawn and two lines of Low Valyrian below. She quickly interpreted the two lines that were identical except the pronouns. She knew exactly what he was suggesting and glared at him, but the insufferable Dornishman just smirked back.

Rising to her feet, she went over to the fire, throwing it in, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice of Jaime. “What’s that, Sansa?”

A quick excuse mingled with truth came to mind. “A riddle in Low Valyrian, Jamie.” Her heart was fast out of worry on whether he’d seen it.

“Oh,” he said. Such a simple word gave her so much relief. “They’re not my sort of thing,” he admitted to her. “Was it interesting?” Sansa nodded but didn’t explain what it had been. Jaime seemed to realise she didn’t want to talk about it. “Well, I’ve got training with Blackfish,” he said, dressed for it. “I’ll see you at the midday meal.”

“Until then,” Sansa replied while her heart slowed. Releasing a breath, Sansa turned towards Oberyn, who was seated with a plate of food, and shot him one last look before she left to do her duties. The blasted man just smirked back.

Going to the Lady’s solar, Sansa proceeded to write a summary report of Riverrun’s expenses, making a deliberate effort to write the words in a plain style. Once it was completed, she pulled the duties list shared between Cat and herself and wrote down that this task was complete, using her normal style of connected letters with the words flourished.

Looking between the report and her note for Cat, there was almost no relation between the two styles and why she dared to accept Jaime’s suggestion of letter writing, as well as sneaking her note into Lord Eddard’s chamber. None of her anonymous letters looked anything like her normal font.

Putting the thought aside and picking up the report for Father, Sansa made her short trip to Father’s solar and knocked on the closed door. Inside the voices stopped and Father called out for her to enter. Opening the door with the report in hand, she noticed both her father and his company, Ser Kevan, were surprised but not unhappy to see her.

“Good morrow, Sansa,” Father greeted her with a warm smile. “I pray all is well?”

“Aye, Father, and good morrow. Good morrow, Ser Kevan,” she replied in kind, and Ser Kevan returned the greeting. “I’ve completed the treasury report for the last half moon,” Sansa told Father and held it out to be taken.

Accepting the report, Father took a brief glance before placing it aside and looking at her once more. “Thank you, Sansa,” he said kindly. “Please, take a seat. Ser Kevan has a few questions.”

Movement from Ser Kevan’s direction drew her attention. “Lady Sansa, to my knowledge you share the duties as Lady of Riverrun with Lady Catelyn, correct?”

“Yes, Ser Kevan,” Sansa said. “In the beginning, we had different strengths and weaknesses in our abilities, but when Catelyn or I found a duty difficult the other would assist so we learned to do it on our own.”

Ser Kevan nodded for a moment. “And now?”

“Catelyn and I have no struggles and alone can complete any duty required of us,” she answered with certainty, for she knew it was true.

Sansa had a good feeling she knew they were discussing her future before she’d entered the room; it was the only thing that justified Ser Kevan’s questions. She was a little shocked that it was happening because she’d been rather distracted by other worries in one form or another.

At the moment she’d been trying to think of how to alert the Starks of the Night King, and prevent Lyanna from getting involved with Rhaegar; she didn’t know if Lyanna had gone willingly with the prince, but a betrothal Lyanna will not flee from was Sansa’s goal at the moment; the consequences of such a goal tore at her heart every day, but are thousands of lives worth one?

Sansa knew Mia Stone was Robert Baratheon’s bastard conceived when he was fostered in the Eyrie; she’d met the then-woman and was told who the father was when Littlefinger had taken Sansa there; it took but a little mathematics to deduce when King Robert fathered Mia. Not yet, but a matter of a few years.

The idea of being betrothed to Jaime wouldn’t be one she’d dislike, but Sansa did have her concerns about Cersei. The younger girl had attempted and succeeded in striking Sansa in response to Jaime merely holding her hand. Jaime was important to Cersei; Sansa didn’t know the details but she could guess they’d been close at this age before. With Jaime in Sansa’s company during the visit to Riverrun, Cersei had grown jealous and filled with hate; there was no other reason for Cersei to say what she did during that confrontation.

Eyes dropping to her lap, Sansa thought about how well herself and Jaime seemed to get along. He was pleasant company and slowly becoming a more and more important friend who she’d hate to see return to Casterly Rock; Jaime was so happy here. So carefree unlike his serious self from King’s Landing; they hadn’t interacted much during that time, but she’d learnt to understand moods and intentions to protect herself as best she could from Joffrey and Cersei. There was hardly a time she’d seen Jaime smile then.

She had to admit there was something of an appeal; they understood one another, laughed together, shared their problems and found solutions, yet understood what was expected of them by their fathers; although, Jaime wasn’t overly eager with succeeding his father.

Sansa looked at Ser Kevan, reading his features and posture. She had a hunch that she had the right of their prior conversation and a tiny smile graced her lips for a moment.

She’d never thought about Jaime like that, but thinking of him as a potential betrothed now didn’t alarm her either; just Cersei.

He seemed to sense her suspicions. “You _are_ a sharp lady,” Ser Kevan remarked, the mild stiffness in his body faded. “Lady Sansa, is it true you organised the vassal lords’ accommodation and seating for the betrothal feast in honour of Lady Catelyn and Lord Brandon?” He was watching her with a sharp eye, but one of an observant nature. “Was it difficult?”

“Ser Kevan, it is true,” she said without being too prideful. The duty had been a large task. “It required a small amount of time to ensure certain vassal lords’ bedchambers and seats were apart to prevent conflict from breaking out. However, the duty in itself merely required detail. Remaining within the allocated gold for the feast was no ordeal,” she said, watching his body language while she spoke.

Nodding to her, Ser Kevan glanced at her father before turning back. “And it was a pleasant celebration. Thank you, Lady Sansa. When I return to the Westerlands for preparations of the tourney, you would be welcome to join us until the tourney’s end,” he told them both. Father straightened in his seat, and she had a feeling she knew why. So did Ser Kevan apparently. “For the duration of your stay, if you choose to attend the tourney, there will be a knight by your side to prevent and protect you from any further altercations between Lady Cersei and yourself.”

Sansa gazed at her father and saw him looking back at her, he wasn’t overly comfortable with this and after Sansa’s minute nod to him, Father spoke. “Ser Kevan, your nephew suffered a head injury from Lady Cersei,” he needlessly reminded the knight. “Under what justification would I consider allowing my daughter to be within proximity of such a violent child?” he asked sternly. “I’ve been offered an alternative in the Reach I’m considering for Sansa’s safety.”

They may not have thought it, but Sansa knew exactly what Father just implied. She only _looked_ like a child.

Ser Kevan seemed to know what Father was alluding to and it took but a moment for Sansa to recall what once could have been and concealed her smile at the irony. The same families fighting for her hand once again; this time the Tyrells had the upper hand at the moment.

Willas would be but a toddler at best at this point, and it would be years before he was of marrying age, but a gap greater than five years wasn’t uncommon for arranged marriages. Father’s comment meant Willas was either but a newborn babe or five years younger than her. Knowing Willas Tyrell’s exact age wasn’t a priority.

Ironically, Sansa would prefer Jaime if she had to choose. Tyrells and Lannisters were both scheming families, Lady Olenna and Lord Tywin, but she knew Jaime and he appeared to be nothing like Tywin Lannister in that manner; he wanted honour and glory, not plotting. Then again, he wasn’t yet ten; things could change.

She prayed Jaime didn’t change to become too like his father.

Ser Kevan held out his hands in a placating manner. “Lady Cersei will be living with the Lannisters of Lannisport and apart from Lord Tywin’s sons,” he informed them. “Lady Sansa will be accommodated in Casterly Rock with a knight to ensure her safety. However, Lord Tully, if it is your desire, a knight of Riverrun is welcome to accompany Lady Sansa and further protect your daughter from any possible harm; given these measures.”

She quickly realised that Ser Kevan was using the existence of her friendship with Jaime to try and persuade Father. This riled her, but she smothered it and played the unaware child.

Ser Kevan was almost begging by making that offer; Cersei’s behaviour must have spread throughout Westeros and reducing respect for the family to ashes if he was willing to appease Father so much.

Father had an immediate question. “And the tourney?”

“Lady Cersei shan’t be present.”

_That was a quick change of mind._

Sansa didn’t doubt Lord Tywin wouldn’t want the humiliation of the family at the tourney for all to see. She wouldn’t blame Lord Tywin either.

Father seemed partially appeased for now, but his concern was still evident. “Lady Cersei was sent away for the safety of my family, Ser Kevan. Now you desire me to permit my daughter to travel to the very home of that same girl?” he said solemnly, eyes watching the knight in the solar. “Should I permit this, there will be a trusted knight of Riverrun present at all times. And as you say, Lady Cersei absent from Casterly Rock and the tourney of Lannisport; removing the risk of her striking my daughter. If the knight of choice is hindered from his duty in any way, he will immediately depart Casterly Rock with Sansa,” Father told Ser Kevan. “I will not accept less.”

Ser Kevan nodded gravely. “I shall send a letter to Lord Tywin to confirm what I have said, Lord Tully,” he informed Father from his seat. “If I may use a raven?”

“Granted,” Father said. Turning to Sansa, he brought her back into the conversation she’d been witnessing. “Sansa, please notify Maester Kym of our need for him, and then continue on your day.”

She knew a dismissal when she heard one.

Rising from her seat and giving the appropriate words with the curtsey, Sansa left the room and fulfilled the task Father had given her. The maester was in his office and quickly left for the Lord’s solar. Now complete with the errand, Sansa took note of the time and made her way down to the Dining Hall for the midday meal.

Inside were Jaime, Oberyn, her sisters and the Starks minus Lyanna.

Listening to the quiet discussion between Lyarra, Brandon and Ned it was clear to Sansa they were wondering where Lyanna could be. Sharing a glance with Jaime before taking a seat, Sansa kept her face otherwise straight and interacted with those present as she normally would. She’d gotten this far exacting a little justice, and although she hadn’t expected for the bridge to still be under maintenance if that was the cause for Lyanna absence, Sansa wasn’t about to start behaving in a telltale way.

Taking a fair share from the food platters, Sansa was about to begin the meal when Lysa turned to her. “Sansa,” Lysa said just before Sansa was about to eat. Looking at her younger sister, Sansa gave her full attention. “I heard stable boys saying your horse is missing,” she informed Sansa. “Do you think she took it for a ride?” Lyarra looked in their direction at that.

“I hope not,” Sansa replied, despite knowing better. “Grey Grace was Mother’s horse before she was gifted to me,” Sansa continued, playing the confused owner. “I use a knot that only I, Prince Oberyn and the stable boys know. How could she have taken it? Unless…” Her moment of silence was deliberate and no doubt had the attention of all the Starks. “Was there mention of the strap being cut?”

“Aye, Sansa, there was and Grey Grace is missing,” her younger sister confirmed in apology. Sansa would spend time with Lysa later so she knew Sansa wasn’t angry with her.

The answer caused the Starks to exchange looks; Brandon was the least concerned. Lyarra Stark, on the other hand, seemed furious but spoke calmly. “Lady Sansa,” she interrupted, voice contrite. “This sounds like a very important horse to you.” Sansa nodded so Lady Stark knew she was correct. “If my daughter has indeed taken your horse I’ll have her muck out its stall during our stay.”

The consequence Lady Lyanna was intending to give her daughter was a surprise to Sansa.

 _It seems like a drastic choice._ _Stall mucking would embarrass Lyanna and the Starks by extension._

“My lady,” she addressed patiently. “Are you certain that is your wish?” Sansa wanted to at least offer the opportunity for the Starks to be spared the aftermath of such a choice; especially Lady Stark and Lord Eddard. 

Lady Lyanna merely shook her head, rejecting the offer. “Lyanna needs to learn an important lesson,” Lady Lyarra said with conviction, expression severe and unyielding. “One that my wish will certainly see it learnt.”

“What am I learning?” the young voice of Lyanna wafted from the Dining Hall doors. The girl herself was surprisingly still dressed in riding clothes; Sansa couldn’t believe it. There was a difference between Arya not minding get dirty during the day and Lyanna intending to eat unwashed and smelling of a horse at another castle.

 _Has my aunt ever been punished? Arya was_ never _this bad!_

Watching the Starks, Sansa could see her grandmother’s anger seeping through her disappointed expression. “Where have you been?” she questioned her daughter once the girl was seated, but received a shrug to her question. “Lyanna!”

Everyone’s attention snapped to Lady Stark upon the shout of her daughter’s name. Sansa had never heard the woman raise her voice like that before.

Lyanna appeared to be equally shocked, visibly swallowing before she spoke. “I was riding but the drawbridge was raised when I returned.” Sansa felt some satisfaction that the girl, in fact, had to wait; Grey Grace was very dear to Sansa. “I had to wait a while because the guards were fixing something.” Lyanna’s expression changed to that of confusion. “Why are you so angry?”

There was no immediate response from Lady Stark, but after a minute of silence and spreading anxiety she spoke. “What colour was your horse?” Her tone held warning, her eyes watching Lyanna sharply.

Lyanna didn’t hesitate. “Grey.” Lady Stark didn’t say a word and merely tilted her head. “’Grey Grace’ was burnt into the leather,” Lyanna expanded and looked over to Brandon. “So dull,” she added as though to jape, but Brandon didn’t laugh; he was watching his mother.

Sansa’s blood boiled at the insult but refused to let it show. Catelyn and Lysa managed to leave the hall without drawing the attention of Winterfell’s lady. She didn’t blame them. An insult about Sansa’s horse was an insult towards their mother, who’d named that horse. Herself and Jaime probably should leave, but a look to Jaime told her he had no intention of going; she stayed.

“LYANNA STARK!”

The girl startled in her seat and took a moment to answer, but with indignity. “What?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Lady Stark warned her daughter with a low voice, making Lyanna shrink further into her seat. It seemed as though Lyanna had never been spoken to like this before; Sansa had seen her share of men shouting one minute but staying low the next. You never knew when they would explode next.

Lyanna didn’t utter a word.

Lady Stark slowly rose from her seat. “That horse was not yours to be used. You do not use the family horses in a host’s castle without express permission. Grey Grace belongs to Lady Sansa Tully. The knot should have told you something. You will be mucking that stall until we leave for _Winterfell_.” The angry mother started to slowly walk towards her daughter’s seat.

“What?! Winterfell?! But the tourney, we-!“

Lady Stark didn’t let Lyanna finish. “We’re not going,” she decreed. “And you’ll be answering to your father why.”

“THAT’S NOT FAIR!”

Sansa was beginning to feel awkward witnessing this, but it was too late to leave. Leaving now would only interrupt and it appeared that her grandmother was at her end with Lyanna antics.

“Start thinking beyond what you want, Lyanna, and consider the consequences of your actions! You’re restricted to your chamber for the next three days as a start.”

“What?!”

Lady Stark didn’t seem phased by the protest and acted as though it never happened. “During Guest right bread and salt, you questioned the late Lady Tully’s name choice for her daughters. One day. You stole Lady Sansa’s horse this morning. Another day. You insulted House Tully again. A third day. Any more offences against the Tullys OR their guests and you’ll spend a day in your chambers for each transgression. I’m well aware of your disregard. You will remain in your chambers until we leave if we reach a fourth offence. Go.”

Lyanna was gaping at her mother in shock and didn’t take well to the news and finally stormed out of the hall when Lady Stark’s gaze didn’t falter at the protests. There was no sympathy coming from even Lord Eddard. That was the only name Sansa could speak without getting overly emotional.

The current Lady of Winterfell turned to her eldest son. “The same consequences for you, Brandon, should you do anything further.”          

Lord Brandon appeared subdued and disappointed. “Yes, Mother.”

With the air thick with tension, no one spoke while finishing their meal. Lady Stark was the first to leave soon followed by Lord Brandon. When Jaime chose to leave briefly after, Sansa wasn’t surprised considering his mental age matched his physical one. Unlike Sansa, who was well past twenty and well learnt in enduring pain and pressure; to withstand them and not give in.

Sansa didn’t blame him.

He reminded her of herself once.

She was a girl in body, but a woman grown in mind.

Being around him brought light into her life again; gave her the chance to act as a girl should without the worries of the world on her shoulders.

_May the Gods have more mercy on Jaime than they once had so little of on me._

At the sound of a goblet touching a plate, Sansa realised she wasn’t the only one in the hall. Pulling her thoughts down deep, she looked towards the brief noise and noticed that Lord Eddard was the other in the Dining Hall; the only other. He seemed a little awkward and unsure of himself.

She decided to break the silence. “Lord Eddard?”

He rose and dipped his head. “Lady Sansa. I’m sorry about this.”

“It wasn’t your doing, my lord,” Sansa reminded him. “Yourself and Lady Lyarra are caring people. I pray you don’t feel that House Stark is unwelcome because of the deeds of one. The circumstances of yourself, my lord, are similar to another I know. You know of whom I speak. You needn’t apologise,” Sansa insisted to the good heart seated nearby.

“I apologise on behalf of my brother and sister all the same, Lady Sansa.”

Dipping her head from where she was sitting, Sansa accepted his words with a kind smile. “That’s considerate of you, Lord Eddard. Thank you.”

Bowing from the waist, Lord Eddard left the hall quietly shortly after.

Now alone in the Dining Hall, Sansa reflected on what she’d just witnessed between the Stark family.

To see Lady Stark firmly handle a child who’d clearly pushed the woman’s limit, at first glance, seemed to be a good thing; discipline would hopefully bring the eldest son and daughter in line.

_But what would that mean for the future? For my girlhood family? What would become of them?_

Sansa had seen what intervention her presence in Riverrun had created. Oswell and Joseth survived thanks to Oberyn’s vial. Baelish was disgraced and sent back to the Fingers. Lysa not trailing after him as a result.

Outside of the Riverlands, the Lannisters’ reputation was reduced to ashes, leaving them with only gold and a history of revenge. Cersei had no control over Jaime. Great Houses were competing for Sansa to become the betrothed of their heirs; Tyrells and Lannisters.

_Will history persist and Harrenhal still occur? Will Lyanna still be taken by Rhaegar Targaryen? Or would it be another woman? If not Robert Baratheon will there still be a rebellion? What of Aerys II Targaryen?_

Whatever fate for Westeros that the future held, Sansa had no certainty; only ideas.

She glanced at Jaime’s seat and sighed in defeat.

_He’d think I am insane…_

_I wish there was someone I could speak to…_        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know about the novel Black Beauty, it inspired the name of Sansa's horse.


	16. House of Rubble

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 16, 1 st moon, 276 AC_

Within the solar of Casterly Rock’s lord, Tywin Lannister was alone and silently seated at his desk.

He was accustomed to belittlement by his king within the Red Keep. The man became more eccentric every year; especially after Ilyn Payne’s jape of Tywin being the king but without the crown; the man lost his tongue for it. Subsequently, Aerys Targaryen made an effort to claim Tywin’s successful ventures as his own decisions and lessen Tywin’s standing in court with insulting japes towards him.

Tywin hated laughter and he hated smiles; especially in King’s Landing. Their humour was at his expense.

His last period of serving in the presence of the King Aerys, who ignored his every suggestion and did the opposite, as Hand of the King, had been worse than anticipated.

And now he hated songs.

Aerys had made a habit of demanding a singer to recite ‘Tully of Ten’ and ‘The Mad Lioness’ when Tywin was nearby or due to arrive for council meetings. The first song was flattery for Hoster’s middle daughter with two verses summarising the appalling behaviour of his own daughter in Lannisport. The second was the king’s favourite; a song that reached King’s Landing while Tywin was there for over a moon.

It directly mocked him. It spoke of his daughter’s belief she could act with impunity when it suited her; attacking hosts and smallfolk alike. It implied his house was incapable of raising all its children with common sense and decency.

His son was injured for a time due to the actions of Cersei when the boy at least had the mind of protecting House Lannister; hadn’t he tried, the mockery the Lannisters faced across Westeros would have been worse. 

Yet, his daughter…

_Lannisters don’t act like fools._

And yet his daughter had been no mere fool but beyond what he could have possibly anticipated.

He’d only returned to Casterly Rock but moments ago this morning and his sister, Genna, had greeted him with a solemn expression about her. Nor would he have expected any differently.

Releasing a breath, Tywin opened the first letter on his desk; red wax with the dragon sigil.

There was no point tarrying.

_After little consideration, I, King Aerys second of his name of House Targaryen, have deemed it a lackwit’s decision to marry my son and heir to your daughter. House Targaryen won’t be associated with the shame brought upon House Lannister._

 

Short and to the point, the letter reflected the strain between the King and his Hand. Ever since Aerys took liberties with Joanna and imparted insulting remarks towards her, Tywin ceased to view the King as a respectable man.

Respect for House Lannister was all but gone; his daughter had seen to it thoroughly. He’d had plans for the girl to join his house with the Targaryens; to become the queen. Unlike his son, she had shown herself capable of turning a situation to her advantage; what she would need to be a proper queen.

However, those plans were but smoke. Destroyed by what possible reason compelled the girl to change into a rash lackwit without an idea of how to behave as a queen should. She’d known of her future as a Targaryen queen for a few years. Cersei had shown promise; now she showed anything but.

Reaching for the second letter, Tywin broke the red seal; this time, the lion sigil of his house. There were two such letters, however, this had the earlier date.

 

_Tywin,_

_As I write this Genna is preparing to depart from Riverrun with Cersei in her company. Attached to this letter is the finalised trade agreement between the Westerlands and the Riverlands; Genna will explain why the price is higher than desirable, but I have no doubt you would have heard whispers about Cersei’s severe transgression._

_During the incident, Jaime’s skull was not fractured, thank the gods, but Riverrun’s maester forbade any travel for two sennights._

_Until such time, I will be observing the Tully family; Sansa Tully specifically. I believe she will be one of few to possibly marry into House Lannister now should word spread. The Lady Sansa and Jaime are showing traces of a budding friendship. If this grows we may need to act upon it._

_Lord Tully has arranged for safe travel to be provided once Jaime has healed to the maester’s satisfaction._

_I’ll keep you informed of any further developments._

_-Kevan_

 

His brother was one of few men he trusted for a reason to act a Lord Regent of Casterly Rock. Like-minded and loyal, Kevan’s assumptions and decisions were well-aligned with his own; had Tywin possessed this letter’s information earlier he’d have prepared a betrothal offer already.

Opening the second from his brother, dated three sennights later, Tywin saw proof Kevan had a similar line of thought.

 

_Tywin,_

_Although Jaime healed a sennight ago, I’ve remained in Riverrun with your sons. By your doing, Casterly Rock is organised as such that my absence as Regent wouldn’t have a notable effect. Our sister would have tended to it regardless._

_I suggest we use the friendship between Jaime and the Lady Sansa to our advantage; it has grown rapidly, much like the spreading word of Cersei’s physical assault on this lady._

_As previously said, I’ve observed Sansa Tully and when the girl ‘s not acting in tandem with Lady Catelyn as Lady Regent it is rare for her to be absent from Jaime’s side. There’s been much growth between the pair since the departure of Cersei. They’re undeniably friends, and Prince Oberyn’s - a guest of the Tullys- japes towards the pair have only pushed them together; to our benefit. Pushed them, in fact, to the point where they spent over half a celebration feast together as dance partners. For the Riverland vassal lords, Sansa Tully organised accommodations and seating to ensure no outbreak of conflict, which she did successfully._

_Despite a Harrenhal girlhood, Sansa Tully has performed Regent duties with an ease and understanding of unbelievable proportions. Based on my observations, I took the initiative to approach Hoster Tully._

_I needn’t preach how dire we need to betroth Jaime now before no one will agree to do so._

_The girl is sharp, Tywin. Two questions providing no clues and she deduced I was discussing a betrothal with her father. Had she lingered by the door prior, I would have known._

_Hoster Tully is no lackwit and is proving difficult in permitting his daughter to attend the tourney so you may see her for yourself. It’s not the early betrothal discussion or your son that’s the problem; it’s Cersei. Hoster is unwilling to permit Lady Sansa to be near Cersei to any extent after the breaking of Guest right in Riverrun._

_He went so far as to divulge receiving an offer from the Mace Tyrell concerning a betrothal to his heir of five years to her. I doubt this was Lady Olenna’s idea, but the point remains; Hoster Tully won’t betroth Lady Sansa to Jaime unless Cersei is far from his daughter. I don’t blame the man after Cersei injured your son and his daughter._

_I’ve offered the following to appease him: Cersei residing in Lannisport while Lady Sansa is accommodated at Casterly Rock; Cersei absent from the tourney; a Lannister and Tully knight present to protect Lady Sansa, including Hoster’s condition of removing Lady Sansa immediately from Casterly Rock should the Tully knight be hindered._

_Hoster Tully wants written proof from you that these conditions will be met before he’s willing to permit attendance._

_The Lannister house and name are but a jape now, and at present, there’s an opportunity of betrothing Jaime to a smart, capable girl from a Great House. However, we must act quickly before another such house approaches Hoster for Lady Sansa. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Baratheons made an offer next; their sons are more appropriately aged than Willas Tyrell._

_I know you desired Cersei on the Iron Throne, but I also know you’re no fool, Tywin. No man with sense would marry her to their son now. Aerys mayhaps be eccentric but he’s not stupid._

_Speak to our sister for more details on the girl; she has a sharper eye for such matters._

_-Kevan_

 

Putting his brother’s second letter aside, Tywin began writing a reply but no immediate intent on sending it. He wasn’t going act blindly.

 

_To Lord Tully,_

_During the stay of Lady Sansa, the following conditions will be met:_

_Cersei Lannister residing with the Lannisters of Lannisport._

_Cersei Lannister absent from the tourney._

_A knight from each house protecting Lady Sansa; the Tully knight unhindered._

_-Lord Tywin Lannister_

_Lord of Casterly Rock_

_Shield of Lannisport_

_Warden of the West_

Many lords wrote their business with unnecessary words and length; Tywin never saw benefit from it.

_Convey what needs conveying and be done with it._

At first glance, the inclusion of his lordship titles could be misconstrued as vanity. However, there was a reason he’d done it when appealing to Lord Tully was the priority.

By excluding ‘Hand of the King’, a highly respected title in Westeros, Tywin was showing Lord Tully what his daughter could be a part of through marriage to the heir of Casterly Rock. The Riverlands’ lord was not a Warden like the Lannisters, Starks, Tyrells, and Arryns; merely a Lord Paramount of his lands. Marrying Lady Sansa to his son would give prestige to the girl when Tywin managed to reverse the damage wrought by Cersei.

Sealing the letter with wax and his sigil, Tywin sent a servant to retrieve Genna; he needed a full picture of Tully’s girl to avoid surprises.

Proceeding with the plans for the tourney in honour of Viserys Targaryen, Tywin used the distraction to suppress his rage towards Cersei for injuring his son. He didn’t know what transpired in Riverrun, but had she acted more forcefully she could have mentally crippled Jaime.

Jaime was his heir; the future Warden of the West.

There was a knock at the door.

Genna entered the solar and closed the door behind her, taking the seat across from him. “Tywin,” she said. “You want to know about Riverrun,” she guessed correctly.

He didn’t answer for a moment glancing at Kevan’s second letter. “I do,” he confirmed. “Sansa Tully; what do you know of her?”

His sister shook her head in appreciation and met his eyes. “She may only be ten, Tywin, but that girl knows what she’s doing.” 

Approval from Genna was a rare thing; especially when she was married to the inept husband Father had arranged for her, Emmon Frey. Leaving the letters in view, Tywin straightens in his seat. “Kevan wrote length about the Tully girl to the point I’d betroth Jaime to her based on his word.”

“I saw her for merely ten days, but I’d say I agree with him,” Genna commented, pulling the newest letter from Kevan towards her but neglecting to read the content yet. She met his eyes. “Hoster Tully was prepared to dismiss the entirety of House Lannister from Riverrun with no hesitation and no trade; suggesting we trade with Olenna Tyrell instead.”

_The man’s well-composed. What have you done, Cersei?_

Genna’s voice pulled Tywin from his thoughts. “Five minutes with her father and Sansa Tully had persuaded Hoster to permit Kevan and the boys to remain until Jaime was healed,” his sister explained. Tywin said nothing and looked at his sister for more. She complied. “The man became calm enough I had the chance to accept the trade; more costly than we intended but better than the Reach.”

“Unusual behaviour for a child,” he remarked without inflection. “What more?”

His sister continued relaxing in her seat. “She knows diplomacy, decorum, and steadfast determination,” Genna complimented the girl. “She has self-control and wits. By the Gods, does she use those wits,” she said, rising from her seat and proceeding to read the letter while she paced. “For a girl her age, you couldn’t ask for better, Tywin. Especially now.”

Genna ceased talking to him in favour of reading the letter. It gave him time to consider everything he’d learnt so far. “A Tully that appeared from the ruins of Harrenhal,” Tywin murmured, catching Genna’s eye. “A genuine Tully?” he asked, thinking about the boy with questionable parentage who carried his name.

“Genuine. Identical to the eldest, but greater beauty,” Genna absently confirmed, focused on the letter. “Face and mind of the mother; colouring of the father’s bloodline.”

_Good. House Lannister needs something of respect and authenticity._

Considering the position his daughter’s actions placed them in, Tywin felt some relief that in their darkest hour there was a chance for the salvation of House Lannister.

_Betrothing Jaime to the girl now before another house does is in our interests._

Tywin watched his sister take her seat once more, discarding the letter towards him. “As indicated by our brother, Sansa Tully is capable and nearly managing Riverrun already,” Genna supported Kevan, looking absolute in her conviction. “Hoster’s concern for her is justified and he has every right to be.”

“Genna,” he said seriously, wanting more information.

“You should have seen the state of the girl and Jaime that day,” Genna told him, voice tinged with disbelief. “This was no mere slap between girls, Tywin. Jaime and Lady Sansa had lines of blood on their faces; bruises to their cheeks.” Tywin struggled to understand how his daughter had come to be so reckless; impulsive mayhaps but not this. “Cersei’s a menace and has ruined everything you built; our name is a jape once more despite your efforts. Our brothers, Tygett and Gerion, agree and you know how they feel about you.”

It had taken Tywin years of fighting, be it war or defiant lords; years of friendship with Aerys Targaryen before matters turned sour. Things he couldn’t repeat on a whim.

Genna rose from her seat and strode in front of the desk with evident anger. “She nearly destroyed relations between the Tullys and Lannisters, hadn’t it been for Lady Sansa. Thanks to Cersei, we had to accept a price higher than we desired or nothing.” She paused in her pacing and met Tywin’s eyes. “Send that girl to the Silent Sisters, Tywin. Were she my own daughter I would have done it long before now.”

The conviction in Genna’s voice made him look away.

_How has Cersei reached the point that Genna would suggest such action?_

With his mind made up about the Tully girl, Tywin rose from his seat to deliver the reply for Tully to the Maester Gawen himself. Regard for House Lannister had suffered and he had no doubt servants with enough foolishness would dare to peer into the business of this house.

Concerning betrothals, friendships didn’t typically play a role of any influence. However, for House Lannister’s sake, it was the most crucial factor in regards to Jaime and Lady Sansa. With the stain on the family name, there was no appeal for Lord Tully to join houses.  

Tywin cared not for the reason that Hoster Tully was considering Kaven’s proposal; Lady Sansa was needed here at Casterly Rock and to become The Lady of Casterly Rock.

_All that matters is I have that girl bound to my son and soon._

Entering the office of Maester Gawen, Tywin was immediately acknowledged. “My lord,” the maester said, rising from his seat and eyes falling upon the letter. “To be sent, my lord?”

“Yes. Riverrun, and the strongest raven,” Tywin ordered, passing it over into the maester’s hands, who gave a small nod of understanding. Tywin lingered long enough to see the bird take flight and returned to his solar and finally took the time to look at the trade agreement. Genna and Kevan were trustworthy; he doubted they’d sign something ridiculous.

Reading through the details of what foods and how much gold for each, it was evident to Tywin that his siblings had been somewhat near to what he considered a desirable exchange. There were one or two goods where it was very clear that the negotiations had been interrupted and given Genna and Kevan no chance to haggle with Lord Tully for a better arrangement.

Tywin did not need more proof that his daughter had made a detrimental impact upon House Lannister, however, to hold a physical piece of it in his hands made his blood boil. He’d raised her to be far better than this. He’d expected her to be more committed to becoming a Targaryen queen.

There was no sense in the sudden change in the behaviour of his daughter. Cersei, when told years ago, that he intended for her to become the future queen had been enthusiastic to become the queen she was meant to be. Close to four moons ago when he told her King Aerys seemed likely to accept, the girl had been ecstatic.

It made no sense to Tywin why Cersei would destroy her chance of something highly desired by himself and his daughter.

Disappointed by such disgraceful behaviour, Tywin told a passing servant to bring Cersei to his solar.

Putting away Kevan’s first letter, but leaving Aerys’ letter on the desk, Tywin was re-reading Kevan’s most recent one to see if he could glean any additional information concerning Sansa Tully’s capabilities and attitude.

There was a moment when he heard the sound of Genna’s step accompanied by those of his daughter’s. From his periphery, Cersei seated herself in front of his desk while Genna left the solar and closing the door behind herself to leave the pair of them alone.

Finally finishing the letter, but obtaining no new information about this girl, Tywin looked at his daughter positioned on the other side. Her appearance was no different than what it had been when he last departed for the capital. She still looked like a mixture of himself and Joanna, yet her reported behaviour was nothing alike to Joanna’s.

The chamber remained silent for a while as Tywin stared at his daughter without uttering a word.

Cersei, on the other hand, was clearly uncomfortable and stirred. “Father?”

There was no immediate answer. In fact, he didn’t move at all for more than a minute. “Your assault on Sansa Tully was unacceptable,” he told her, voice deep. “Your assault on Sansa Tully also had consequences.”

The name of Sansa Tully seemed to rile his daughter, the reason as to why was lost on him. “I got sent from the tart’s home. Why would it matter?” she said in arrogance. There was no trace of regret on his daughter’s face.

“It matters,” he told her. Pushing Aerys’ letter towards her, Tywin watched her look at him in question without reading it. “In this letter are those consequences.”

Cersei didn’t look at it immediately.

“Read.”

Sitting in his seat and watching her face, Tywin saw her face flicker while he gave her a moment to absorb just what she had done.

Cersei didn’t seem to believe it. “It has to be a fake,” she said, dropping the letter back on the desk.

Tywin grew stern and straightened in his seat, waiting for her to meet his eyes and held the gaze before he spoke. “I will not be called a liar by my own child.”

There were fear and anger in her eyes. “You told me the king agreed to marry me to Prince Rhaegar,” she argued weakly.

“I raised you to become that queen, but before you sit proof he’s changed his mind.”

She looked devastated and failed to utter a word.

“What did you expect to happen when you struck your host? It wouldn’t have remained a secret for long.”

His daughter looked up with her hope in shreds. She swallowed nervously. “What happens now?”

“You will do as you are bid,” he told her, voice brooking no argument. There was one solution he’d drawn concerning his daughter that he was willing to use for now.

Her face became one of confusion. “What do you mean?”

Pausing for a moment, Tywin maintained the eye contact without speaking. “You will spend extensive time with the septas in Lannisport before returning to Casterly Rock.”

“I will not,” she immediately opposed, albeit meekly.

Tywin spoke as though he hadn’t heard her. “Jaime is heir to Casterly Rock and will be marrying a respectable house. You will not be recklessly destroying our name any further.”

“No!” Cersei shouted, body shaking with anger. “It’s that Tully whore, isn’t it?” she accused bordering rage.

By everything he’d read and heard about the girl from Kevan and Genna made the thought of Sansa Tully being such sound like a conflicting idea.

Prepared to sap his daughter’s energy to shout, he verbally struck where it would hurt most. “This behaviour is why the king won’t betroth you to Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Her eyes had the intended look of a wounded animal, but despite that, she continued to argue. “I’m to be queen. I WON’T LET SANSA TULLY CONTROL JAIME!”

“As you are this moment, you will never be queen. And who your brother marries is none of your concern,” he told her. It made little sense why Cersei held such an interest in Jaime’s future.

“He’s my twin brother. Not a stallion for breeding!”

“Your aunt would have sent you to join the Silent Sisters.” Cersei’s eyes widened. “Be grateful that I am not.”

“I’m not going to that sept while you USE JAIME LIKE A SLAVE!”

“YOU’RE MY DAUGHTER! YOU WILL DO AS I COMMAND AND WILL GET THIS FOOLISH NOTION OUT OF YOUR MIND!”

“Father, don’t do this to us. Please-,”

“Not another word!” he demanded, rising to his feet and leaning over his desk towards Cersei, which made her shrink away. “My daughter…you’ve disgraced the Lannister name too severely. You will have a chamber in that sept before the day is out.”

Leaving the solar, Tywin made directly for the stables and received a horse from the frightened stable boys.

He rode to the Lannisport sept at a canter instead of a gallop. House Lannister’s name mayhaps is smeared in mud, but he had no intention of contributing to it.

For Cersei to have thrown away an entire future with the Targaryens and all of his efforts merely over what girl he would marry his son to enraged Tywin. However, he needed to exercise control of his emotions if his house was to have a scrap of dignity from here on.

Power and respect were an upward slope and no simple achievement. He wouldn’t make Joanna’s child join a permanent commitment such as the Silent Sisters, but if she needed to be a pupil of the Faith to be brought to heel and taught common sense then so be it until she learned civility.

_Kevan was right. No man with sense would marry her into their family with her current misconduct._

Entering the Sept of Lannisport with his emotions muted, Tywin explained the situation to the septon after an oath of silence was sworn. The septon, it appeared, was quite aware of what had happened concerning his daughter the past two moons and reluctantly agreed to his request.

Bringing her from Casterly Rock to Lannisport had been far easier than anticipated. By no means did she cooperate and make the transition simple, but the missing need for packed saddlebags reduced the task to only transporting his daughter. She fought against the guards like a desperate animal and screaming profanities on the stairs to the sept’s doors as they pulled her up. Meanwhile, Tywin kept away from the building until the audience he’d predicted dissipated into nothing.

_I won’t be associated with this scene._

It was a humiliating incident to witness and he wondered how in the world she was Joanna’s child.

Late in the afternoon, Tywin re-entered the sept and was led to the small chambers he’d been shown earlier.

Inside and dressed plainly in a grey linen dress and golden hair loose, was his daughter without any of her flattering adornments. The chambers were plain and contained nothing aside from bare essentials.

The green eyes staring at him held rage. “Why didn’t you just put me in a dungeon cell?”

“Here you will learn decency and respect. A dungeon cell in Casterly Rock would not teach you that.”

Her face was full of disbelief. “And I couldn’t learn that at Casterly Rock?”

“No. You’re nearly ten and constantly attempt to ride roughshod over the people and customs of Westeros. Until you learn differently, you will remain here.”

He left the room and closed the door behind him. Screams of rage could be heard coming from inside the chambers and Tywin stiffly walked away. At the sound of a key locking, his daughter became worse

Tywin didn’t turn back.

He continued on and returned to Casterly Rock.


	17. Clues and Change

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 21, 1 st moon, 276 AC_

Rising from his bed, Jaime wandered over to the window of his Riverrun chamber and glanced at the Red Fork that flowed by below. It had been a moon since Cersei and Aunt Genna departed for Casterly Rock; soon, he would be too.

Although he had long missed his aunt and not Cersei, it had been really nice here with the Tullys, especially Sansa. He would miss the friend he had in Sansa. To a point, he would admit he will miss Oberyn’s japes and relaxed ways as well.

_Oh wait, he’s jousting at the tourney._

Jaime dreaded leaving. It meant he would be returning to the demanding sister, cold father, and noble girls interested in Lannister gold and the Lannister power.

Dressing for his last Riverrun ride, and putting his packed possessions on his bed to be taken to the wheelhouse, Jaime didn’t tarry around and strangely didn’t encounter Sansa in the halls on his way to the stables like he usually did. Trusting that she would reach the stables soon enough, as she always did, Jaime continued his approach and spotted two ladies ahead at the edge of the godswood; one of them was Sansa.

The other was Lady Stark who was talking to Sansa. “You were right to seek information, Sansa,” Lady Stark said affectionately, hand fiddling with the end of Sansa’s braid. It didn’t seem unwelcome by Sansa, so he didn’t interrupt. “Your nightmare of this ‘Joffrey’ was an awful story, but you heeded its warning of awareness. You did the right thing.”

Sansa took the hand playing with her braid and met the lady’s eyes. “Where the Old Gods are most present, you swore not to divulge what I dreamt.”

“Very true, Sweetling, and I don’t swear a lie before them,” Lady Stark reassured his friend. “Now you know everything I do about them. All will be fine. You will be safe.”

Sansa gave a watery smile; her face full of relief. “Thank you, Lady Lyarra.”

“I would have done it for any girl I woke from a nightmare. And it’s 'Lyarra' when we’re alone,” Lady Stark corrected Sansa and played with the braid. “I know I’ve already said it, but you look like a weirwood with your brighter hair and pale colouring. The red leaves, the white bark,” the Lady complimented, with a soft smile. “If you walked amongst them in Winterfell I’d lose sight of you.”

Sansa seemed really affected by these words and laughed weakly. “Mayhaps I should try one day, Lyarra.”

Lady Stark laughed and pressed a gentle kiss to Sansa’s forehead. “I want you to be careful in anything you do, Sansa. I don’t know why I feel a need to say it, but be careful, sweet one. You’re a precious thing.”

“It’s as though Mother is talking to me, Lyarra. Her voice was the same when she reassured me.”

Lady Stark looked sympathetic. “Mayhaps she’s speaking through me, but I am a mother myself, Sansa; a combination of the two possibly. You can hear things in a godswood when you need guidance.”

“Lord Jaime will be here soon,” Sansa said softly. “Thank you for your advice, Lyarra.”

Lady Stark removed something from her wrist and putting it in Sansa’s hand. “If you ever need help, the Starks will always give it to you, Sansa. Give them this or tuck a letter through it; anyone in Winterfell would recognise it,” Lady Stark told her, wrapping the fingers of Sansa’s hand around a small bauble. “Go on, sweet girl,” she urged Sansa. “Enjoy your ride.”

_Does Sansa keep to the Old Gods?_

Jaime wasn’t sure. Mayhaps Lady Stark took Sansa there because the Starks followed the Old Gods?

_Cersei follows the Faith, so would it matter what gods somebody followed?_

_…No._

Not letting it bother him after that thought, Jamie continued his approach to the stables where the grey mare and chestnut stallion were saddled and ready for them. Taking hold of the reins, Jaime accepted the stable boy’s help up into the saddle and caught sight of Sansa about to receive help onto her mare.

She looked happy, and in a different way than he normally saw.

_It looks…relaxed, mayhaps?_

_Was it because Lady Stark acted like a mother to her?_

_…I miss Mother._

Looking down and closing his eyes for a moment, Jaime swallowed and looked over at Sansa. She seemed worried for him. “Jaime? Is everything alright?”

“It’s nothing,” he lied, nudging his horse into a walk and soon a trot. Glancing at Sansa after a moment, he could see she knew something bothered him, but she didn’t push for the truth; he felt guilty about not telling it true. However, he couldn’t tell her everything that ever bothered him.

There was silence between them, which was normal in the beginning of their rides, but eventually Jaime would have to break it soon or go crazy today while the guilt of lying gnawed at him. Sansa seemed content with silence; it eerily reminded him of Father’s silences for a moment. Shaking the comparison off, Jaime felt unnerved for even considering it.

_He’s cold. She’s caring._

_Father doesn’t listen to little things. She does._

_He saves no real time for his family. Sansa uses every chance she has time._

_They’re nothing like each other._

Once their horses had walked some distance, he gave in to the battle in his mind and spoke.

“I lied, Sansa,” he surrendered. “I saw you and Lady Stark by the godswood.” Sansa’s face lost the relaxed look, but remained calm. He wondered how she controlled herself like that. It had been a private moment between two ladies. “She acted like a mother to you,” he explained and her eyes were the only thing that changed; empathy. “It reminded me of my own mother. I miss her, Sansa,” Jaime confessed, releasing a breath now that the lie was over. “I miss Mother…”

She looked him in the eyes for a moment and Jaime saw her blink but no tears, which was better than him at the moment. His eyes were threatening to spill tears.

_It’s embarrassing._

“Jaime,” she said softly. “There’s no shame in emotion. My mother’s funeral; don’t you remember?”

Jaime nodded but looked away. He was to be a knight. He shook his head and didn’t turn towards her. “A knight has to be strong,” he told her without looking. “A lord, a _warden_ has to be strong. I can’t cry and still be strong.”

_I have to be strong._

Sansa sighed beside him. “In a hall with lords or in a battle with soldiers it is important to be strong,” she agreed with him. “My father is a lord paramount and you’ve seen him during negotiations; he didn’t make the trade easy for your aunt and uncle.” The words made Jaime stop short and look at her, because he knew they were true. “Is he a weak man because he mourns his wife, my mother, in private?”

He looked over to her in surprise and shook his head. “I didn’t know he did,” Jaime admitted to her. “He never looked like a weak lord after the funeral.”

“It sounds as though _privacy_ is what matters when a person cries, doesn’t it?” she asked him confidently, dismounting her horse near rock overlooking the castle.

It seemed like such a simple question to answer, but in his mind the idea of crying clashed with everything he thought about knights and lords; everything he’d been taught about them.

_Father never cries. He hates it when he sees me cry. Cersei frowns at me when I do._

_Sansa isn’t Cersei._

He copied her and bound his horse to a tree. “Yes.”

She stood beside him. “You loved your mother, Jaime.” Her voice was but a murmur. Sansa took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You can love and still be strong.”

Something in Sansa’s comment made Jaime draw shaky breath when the weight of his beliefs left his shoulders. Meeting her eyes, that gentle look, he felt something break like a jar.

Those eyes didn’t change and she nodded. Feeling himself beginning to shake; Jaime brought his arms up to his chest to try and hold himself together. Closing his eyes, he wept quietly. He felt Sansa hesitantly wrap her arms around him.

He didn’t fight it. He leaned into it.

He dropped his arms and held onto her. As he cried in earnest into her shoulder she held him gently, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear.

Memories of his moments with Mother flooded Jaime’s mind now that he didn’t have to hide the pain all the time. For the past two years he thought he had to never cry to be strong. No one ever said anything like what Sansa said, and what she had said made sense.

Jaime stayed in Sansa’s hold and let the memories wash over him.

Swallowing, he took a step back and cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

There was no judgement in her eyes. “Anytime.”

_She’s nothing like Cersei._

Wiping away the last traces of his tears, Jaime took hold of the reins and walked in front of his horse; Sansa followed nearby.

The walk back to Riverrun was a silent one, and this time the silence didn’t bother him like earlier. Every now and then, Jaime looked to Sansa leading her own horse and was glad she wasn’t fussing over him like a nursemaid with a babe; he was grateful. Now knowing he didn’t have to always lock away his love for Mother meant a lot, but it raised a question.

_Why did no one tell me?_

_I mean, Sansa did, but why no one else?_

He wondered about it until they were giving the horses back to the stable boys. Jaime looked at her with worry that she thought him weak after what happened.

Sansa spoke before he did. “You’re still Jaime to me,” she promised quietly. He breathed a sigh of relief. “You have my word I won’t talk about today.” With a curtsey, she waited a moment and turned to leave.

“Sansa,” he called out before she was five paces away. Turning back to him, Sansa tilted her head in question. “I-.” Jaime didn’t know what words to say and just gave her small nods. She seemed to understand and gave a single nod back.

_You’re a good friend._

He didn’t linger in the yard for long after she was gone and Jaime returned to his chambers to bathe and change for the journey home. His bags were gone from his bed; looking like a servant had taken them to the wheelhouse. With a wet linen to his eyes, Jaime did what Aunt Genna taught him once to help him hide evidence of his tears from Father. He didn’t want the Starks or other Tullys to know he’d cried.

Down in the Dining Hall, he was greeted with ‘Good morrow’s and no one seemed to be looking at him strangely, which he counted as good luck. Sitting beside Uncle Kevan, Jaime reached to the spread and began readying a plate for himself as well as Sansa.

He’d seen what she liked to break her fast with enough times over the past moon that he didn’t really have to think about it. Riding with her every morning meant he learned what she enjoyed breaking her fast with and what she disliked. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime noticed Uncle Kevan paying attention to his behaviour, but he didn’t understand why it would interest his uncle.

Shrugging it off, Jaime began eating his own and looked up when Uncle Kevan said his name. “Jamie, we’ll be leaving after this meal. It’s time we returned to Casterly Rock.” The information wasn’t a surprise since yesterday Uncle Kevan had told him they were leaving today. “If there’s anything you left in your chambers it’s best that you retrieve it soon.”

“I’ve packed everything, Uncle Kevan,” Jaime promised his uncle. Receiving a nod of approval, Jaime returned to breaking his fast and at the sound of ‘Good morrow’s for Sansa, he turned his attention to her and caught her eye. When her eyes fell on the plate beside him and he nodded, her face lit up with a contagious smile.

“Good morrow, Lord Jaime. How kind of you.”

Gods, he felt embarrassed with people looking. “It’s, uh, nothing really,” he replied, looking at his own plate to hide from their eyes. Jaime could have sworn Uncle Kevan whisper a disapproving comment about bad manners. 

Sansa took the seat beside him and that’s when he noticed she was dressed for travel, unlike her sisters or father. Lord Tully was watching them with light amusement before resuming breaking his own fast.

_Strange. Why would she be leaving? She loves her family._

The curiosity got the better of him. “Lady Sansa,” he said, feeling strange having to address her that way after so long. “Where will you be travelling to?”

Sansa looked surprised that he was asking. “Ser Kevan invited me to attend the Tourney of Lannisport.” Jaime looked to Uncle Kevan, who nodded affirmatively. “Father accepted. I do apologise, Lord Jaime, I believed you knew.”

The news shocked him. Jaime honestly hadn’t expected that he would be seeing Sansa again anytime soon. This morning’s ride had been the end of it as far as he’d known.

Uncle Kevan interrupted his thoughts, rising from his seat. “We have a long journey ahead of us, Lady Sansa, and will be departing shortly. I and my nephew will await you in the yard.”

Nodding from her seat, Sansa replied calmly. “Of course, Ser Kevan, I shall be there soon.”

Jaime rose from his own seat and followed the lead of his uncle out of the Dining Hall and to the wheelhouse. Peering into the wheelhouse, Jaime saw proof that Sansa was coming with them. He spotted Prince Oberyn coming out dressed for travel with his sand steed.

_He’s been training every day to joust. I knew he would be coming along._

“Uncle,” he said feeling baffled and approached Uncle Kevan. “Cersei will hurt her again,” Jaime urged his uncle to reconsider. “I know she will.”  

Uncle Kevan made eye contact with him. “Lady Sansa will be safe, Jaime,” he told him firmly.

“How?” he almost demanded. Jaime swallowed nervously and took a step back, but his uncle didn’t seem angry; which was odd.

“Ser Karyl of House Vance is the Riverlands knight Lord Tully has chosen to protect Lady Sansa in the Westerlands,” Uncle told him factually. “He is the heir of Wayfarer’s Rest and will join our retinue when we reach him.”

Nodding, Jaime looked to Uncle Kevan. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I know it’s wrong to shout.”

Uncle Kevan had a look that lacked any disappointment. “This one time, Jaime, you’re excused.” Jaime watched as the man approached the gathered family of the Tullys not far from the wheelhouse and extended his hand to Lord Tully. “Lord Tully, I thank you for being so accommodating for a far longer time than either of us anticipated. What happened here will not be repeated in Casterly Rock or Lannisport. You have my word.”

Lord Tully and Uncle Kevan held gazes and the men nodded. Lord Tully broke the silence. “My daughter shall represent my house in the coming moons. I have no doubt she will make my house proud.”

Looking over at Sansa, Jaime saw how she swelled with pride at her father’s words and grew just that little more regal. She held the hands of her sisters together and was confidently telling them something; at the end Ladies Catelyn and Lysa looked to one another before nodding to their sister in unison.

Jaime wasn’t paying attention to the exchange between his uncle and Lord Tully; he was watching Sansa.

She was saying farewell to her brothers; a murmur of the twins’ names and a caress to their cheeks. Edmure was the last she spoke to and embraced; the little boy caught sight of Tyrion and seemed to understand what was happening.

“Bye-bye, Tywion!” Edmure called out when the nursemaid entered the second wheelhouse.

_He cares…_

_My second favourite Tully._

Sansa curtsied before her father and Blackfish after they smiled at her. Walking to the first wheelhouse, Sansa shared a glance with Lady Stark, who gave a tiny nod.

Opening the door for her, Jaime held out a hand to ensure stability, as was a tradition for this sort of thing. Soon after he entered the wheelhouse himself and the travel was underway.

Looking out the window back towards the castle and family they were leaving behind, Jaime dropped his gaze and sighed. He was happy for Sansa, he truly was, but it was a saddening thing to watch because there was nothing like that between the Lannister family.

Father was a cold man. Cersei didn’t love Tyrion. There were Uncles Tygett and Gerion who weren’t getting along with Father.

There was a sound of rustling from across the wheelhouse and Jaime looked up to see Sansa taking out a book in another language.

“Sansa,” Jaime said, drawing her attention. “Is that Low Valyrian?”

Sansa looked surprised that he asked her about it. “Yes, Jaime, it is.”

An idea came to him.

_Could I do it?_

_It will keep me busy anyway…_

He asked the question. “Can you teach me?”

Sansa held an expression of surprise with the hint of a smile. “You want to learn? But, the writing…I thought…”

“Gods, not the writing; Westerosi was hard enough,” Jaime remarked, and Sansa’s expression was becoming puzzled. “Just talking it.”

“This _will_ take time, Jaime. Over a year to be fluent,” she warned him. He just shrugged. “Do you still want to learn Low Valyrian speech?”

“Aye.”

Sansa was baffled and this was one of few times he’d seen her like that. “Why?”

“What else can I do in a wheelhouse?” he asked rhetorically. “Besides, can you imagine the look on Aunt Genna’s face if she heard us? Father doesn’t think I’m smart. I know I’m not.”

_That honestly would be funny._

She hesitated and there was a flicker of fear. “What of Lord Tywin, Jaime?”

Jaime didn’t really understand what the matter was. “He’d recognise it if he knows. Unlikely he would.”

Her body didn’t show it but her eyes were worried. “What if he doesn’t understand it and believes I’m speaking mockery? He must be suffering humiliation from Cersei’s actions as it is,” she reasoned seriously. Her eyes were steel; face hardened too. “Tarbecks,” she said. “Ro…Reynes.” She shook her head. “Not my family. I will burn this book if I have to."

Jaime was stunned. Never, ever, had he seen her looking so serious. Her eyes told him it wasn’t a mummer’s farce.

She’d always been the strong one; the smart one; the patient one; the calm one.

_Seven Hells, I was crying on her shoulder this morning._

He witnessed the worry created and was glad they had this wheelhouse alone. 

Jaime took a breath before he took her hands. “Alright, Sansa,” he said slowly, watching her face lose its redness. “If I’m any good, we’ll use it in private only,” he promised. “Can you trust me?”

Sansa expression was torn and she looked away, the seriousness melting. “I overreacted over a language. I’m sorry, Jaime,” she said. “I will trust you with this.”

“You were probably right to worry, Father hates mockery, but you worried too much.” She had a good grip on his hands. “I doubt he would do anything like the Revolt over a language,” Jaime said, giving her hand a squeeze. She met his eyes and the fear was disappearing from them. “In private only.”

“Private only,” she agreed, squeezing his hands before letting them go. “They’ll think you’ve gone mad if you say it to yourself in the halls.”

“Sansa,” he moved over and sat beside her. “You have my word.”

She nodded and opened the book.

And he listened.

_Day 28, 1 st moon, 276 AC_

Over the past sennight after witnessing Sansa become serious, the pair had practised Low Valyrian conversation frequently for lack of anything better to do.

He could remember the most basic words and phrases so far; it didn’t seem like a lot really compared to Sansa.

The language wasn’t really his interest since Jaime preferred the idea of preparing for knighthood, but that wasn’t an option when travelling at a distance-crushing pace. He had to admit that Sansa was a patient tutor though. He shook his head wryly and glanced her way.

Jaime, for safety purposes, was not permitted to ride a horse by Uncle Kevan. Again. It was a rather maddening rule after daily rides beside Sansa for over a moon and a half. He didn’t want Sansa to have to follow the same rule and she didn’t have to. However, by her own choice, Sansa decided not to ride in the mornings.

Inside the wheelhouse, Jaime noticed a look of longing aimed towards Grey Grace by Sansa.

“Sansa,” he said drawing her attention. “You don’t have to stay inside because of me.”

She shook her head and straightened in her seat. “One more sennight, Jaime. I think I can wait that long,” Sansa told him calmly. “There is wisdom in being careful, and the journey is halfway over now.” She gave him a kind smile. “You’ll be able to ride your horse soon.”

Jaime huffed without bite. “How is it you know what I’m thinking?”

At the sound of Sansa’s laugh, Jaime was glad she wasn’t worried anymore. “You want to be a knight. And the people who want to be knights can hardly tolerate the idea of remaining still…or on the ground.” Shaking off whatever thought was on her mind, she cheered up and met his eyes. “And we’re friends. We’ve known each other long enough to understand what the other thinks, to a point.”

“To a point?” he repeated back to her. “Sansa, you read me like that book.”

“I pray it doesn’t bother you, Jaime.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Well, you’re good at hiding yourself; except your eyes sometimes,” Jaime answered, picking at his breeches. “Could you not hide though?”

Sansa looked away and was quiet for a moment. “Hiding myself around strangers protects me,” she told him brooking no argument, but her expression softened. “But you’re no stranger; not anymore, Jaime,” Sansa said, which made him hopeful. “When it’s only us, I won’t, but the moment there’s someone else present I will. It keeps me safe,” she explained, her eyes losing the firm calm he was so used to. In truth, they hadn’t changed other than losing the hardness that shields her.

 “Thanks, Sansa.”

She smiled in response and it looked softer than before, normal mayhaps. Jaime was glad she was keeping her promise and she seemed happier that way too.

Over the past sennight, Jaime had noticed how Uncle Kevan was keeping a watchful eye on him; especially when he was with Sansa at the taverns they stopped by for the nights. It seemed strange to him that his uncle would care. Another thing had been Uncle Kevan never telling him that Sansa was coming along to the tourney.

Looking up at her, Jaime saw her curiosity and he grinned for a moment. Had he looked yesterday it would have been the calm face she used most of the time. “Curious?” he asked cheekily.

Sansa rolled her eyes and met his again. “Yes, Jaime,” she told him looking amused. “Something’s bothering you, but you’re not worried about it,” she accurately guessed.

“Aye, my uncle.”

Sansa straightened up. “Ser Kevan?” she said, intrigued.

“Yes,” he confirmed for her. “He’s been acting strangely. He never told me you were coming.” Sansa nodded. “Well, you know that, but he’s been watching us the whole time.”

Playing with her necklace, Sansa looked like she agreed.

“You think so too.”

Sansa looked up. “Yes, Jaime. He’s not as subtle as he thinks,” she shared with him. “What do you think it means?” She seemed to have an idea but didn’t speak it.

He shrugged and stumbled where he stood when the wheelhouse got rough. “Ugh, Golden Tooth again,” he grumbled and returned to the conversation at hand with only half a mind. “What do I think? Betrothal; or the plans for one,” he blurted out without thinking before he spoke. “He’s watched me when girls visited Casterly Rock and I knew what was happening.” Looking to Sansa, he noticed she didn’t speak against his thoughts.

He realised.

“You believe so too.”

Sansa nodded with watchful eyes. “My father and Ser Kevan were talking vaguely about offers and Ser Kevan trying to persuade Father to let me come to the tourney,” Sansa told him and didn’t seem upset. “What they don’t realise is I understand the true message when a person is vague. I grew up around conversations like that.”

Jaime didn’t say a thing; he was still grasping what he’d absently blurted out about his oldest uncle.

_Betrothal to Sansa?_

Sitting down on the other seat, Jaime was looking down at his hands and occasionally glancing at Sansa now reading a book in her lap, who had caught on that he wanted some time to think and a bit of privacy.

He wasn’t too sure what to think about it a betrothal to Sansa, but it had to be better than those girls from the past who wanted the Lannister wealth. During their visits, Jaime couldn’t stand them and the same old boring talk about Casterly Rock being amazing and other stuff that he didn’t really give a fig about.

Sansa was different to those girls. They met as strangers but became friends after a lot of time together that he actually enjoyed. She cared about Tyrion, who the others were repulsed by; Sansa looked beyond his appearance and saw his brother. Each of them had seen the other at a weak moment and was nice about it.

_But what will it mean for us?_

_Will Sansa still be a friend or change to one of those girls?_

He didn’t know what Sansa thought about it and the idea of talking about it felt strange. He needed time to think; just think.

There was one fear that kept repeating itself in his head.

_I don’t want to lose my best friend._

_Day 4, 2 nd moon, 276 AC_

A sennight after the revelation, Jaime hadn’t felt so unsure of himself for so long. Ever since he started to worry about losing a good friend, Sansa had given him privacy in the ways she could in the limited space of the wheelhouse. Also, he’d noticed, that she’d kept her thoughts concealed with her calm face with the shielded eyes.

Whether that was for his own benefit or hers, Jaime wasn’t sure, but not having to see her opinion on the betrothal made him able to fool himself into thinking she couldn’t see his thoughts; not that she tried to. He supposed that was a respectful thing to do; staying out of his business and not pressuring him with telling expressions of her own thoughts.

They were nearing Casterly Rock. He could see it poking up from the distance and sighed.

“Sansa.”

She looked up from her book and met his eyes; she was hiding her thoughts.

Jaime shook his head. “Please don’t hide. Not from me, Sansa,” he asked of her. He didn’t want to deal with secrets right now.

He just wanted his friend back.

The shield around her eyes faded and he could see she was calm and collected in that real way. “I won’t hide, Jaime.”

It was a relief she was cooperating but not rushing to please him. Those girls rushed to please him. Taking a breath, Jaime got on with it. He couldn’t tarry or they’d reach Casterly Rock before he finished this talk. “That’s good,” he said while struggling to think of the right words. “What do you think we are now?” he asked her. “I don’t want to return to Casterly Rock and be weird around Father.”

“I don’t want things to be awkward at Casterly Rock, especially around your father,” she agreed, not hiding anything with her face or eyes. “And what are we?” she repeated to him. “A betrothal doesn’t mean the end of a friendship, Jaime. Friendship continues on regardless.”

Jaime released a breath and looked out the window nodding. Turning back to her, he gave her a weak smile. “Like a book,” he murmured. Jaime looked up and saw her amusement. He was glad she still seemed like the same person. “I was worried we weren’t friends anymore.”

Sansa’s eyes were sympathetic and she remained sitting where she was. He was glad she wasn’t crowding him. “After everything?” she commented in disbelief. “I like to think we’re still the friends we were before, Jaime. Being betrothed doesn’t change that unless we let it.”

“So what do we do? Nothing? Like it doesn’t exist?” Jaime honestly wasn’t sure how to respond to the betrothal. _Or betrothal plans, either way._

Sansa appeared calm about this and Jaime drew from her confidence yet he didn’t feel it was enough to calm for him yet. “Be who we are and behave how we would have before knowing about the betrothal. Just be who we are, Jaime.”

 _That sounded simple enough. I wish it would be easy to do._ Taking a breath he looked to Casterly Rock. “Do you think they expected us to know?”

“No. They never told us; well, they never told me,” Sansa said sounding patient.

Jaime looked at her. “Me neither,” he told Sansa and saw her nod in response. Something caught her attention and Jaime followed her line of sight.

“Gods, they’ve got all my uncles there!” he said excitedly, sliding to the window. Jaime could see all of his uncles in one place; a rare thing.

“Is it not normal for them to be there?” Sansa asked, sliding up on her side of the wheelhouse.

Jaime looked her way and shook his head. “Father and my uncles Tygett and Gerion don’t get on too well.” Gesturing for her to stand in front of his window, Jaime stood behind her. “On the end is Uncle Gerion, my favourite uncle,” he told her. “Don’t tell him I said that,” he added as an afterthought. Sansa chuckled and nodded. “The one to his right is Uncle Tygett; he’s kinder to Tyrion than Father. And in the middle is my father. Then there’s Aunt Genna, you know her.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder. “Cersei’s missing.”

“What?” Jaime asked, going to the other window. “Father would never let her get away with that.”

“Mayhaps for the best?” Sansa suggested, meeting his eyes.

Jaime couldn’t deny that and nodded. “Probably.”

Sansa looked a little nervous before she made herself look calm and those shielded eyes.

He knew what she was doing. “You’ll be fine, Sansa. Just greet them like you greeted us at Riverrun.” Jaime climbed out of the wheelhouse and held the door open. He nodded to her once her feet were on the ground. She smiled.

“Thank you, Jaime.”


	18. The Lion's Den

**I’d like to credit StarlightAsteria for the idea of natural lighting of Casterly Rock.**

SANSA STARK

_Day 4, 2 nd moon, 276 AC_

_Porcelain._

_Ivory._

_Steel._

At the sound of the wheelhouse door closing, Sansa straightened her back and took the first step forward; beginning her approach.

Her face of The Lady of Winterfell emerged.

_There is no war._

_I’ve done nothing wrong._

Subtly releasing a breath as she walked, Sansa’s eyes brushed over each Lannister present and she remembered their names.

_Lyarra’s insight has prepared me for this.  
_

Gerion Lannister; he enjoys laughter and being a younger brother to Lord Tywin annoys him.

Tygett Lannister; serious and hates being in Lord Tywin’s shadow.

Genna Lannister; shrewd intelligence and loathes her Frey husband. The mother figure of the household.

Ser Kevan joining the group caught her attention.

Kevan Lannister; clever and is content assisting Lord Lannister.

Finally, her eyes turned to the centre.

Tywin Lannister; ruthless and rules his decisions without sentiment. Distrusts signs of happiness, especially in King’s Landing.

Sansa did not turn her face; her expression did not slip.

She remembered it.

_You married Tyrion to a child so to gain the North._

She remembered it all.

_I will never forget what you did to Robb and Lady Stark afterwards._

_Sansa, get a hold of yourself before you go on a tangent._

Observing him as she walked, Sansa saw that twenty-four years younger than her years in King’s Landing made no difference to his imposing figure.

The height and stern face were unchanged; a stern face that her attention was stronger drawn to by the absence of baldness.

There was pride in his posture, but the arrogance she’d witnessed in court was significantly less.

Arrogance was present but it wasn’t a dominant factor; a minor one in actuality.

Then she remembered what she’d said to Jaime.

  _“…He must be suffering humiliation from Cersei’s actions as it is.”_

She took comfort in that. Tywin Lannister didn’t have the power of the Crown behind him. He was Hand of the King in this era too, but the King wasn’t a young relation he could manipulate to his bidding.

_I’ve done nothing to anger him. My family has done nothing._

_So long as my actions don’t mock him or batter his bruised pride he will gain no benefit by acting against me._

_Be the lady, Sansa._

She stopped before him and dipped into a deep curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you and your family, my lord.” She met his eyes and didn’t let her memories influence her to look away. “I, Sansa, daughter of Minisa, of House Tully, thank you for the invitation to your tourney and Casterly Rock during my stay.”

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

The young lass before him maintained eye contact and showed no signs of being a meek girl. However, she dropped her gaze before nearing the edge of disrespect.

He’d watched her from the beginning.

The stride; sure and regal.

Her head; up and confident.

The eyes; composed and calm.

Her state of dress; respectable.

Tywin glanced over at his sister, he saw she wasn’t surprised.

_The girl’s normal behaviour then._

He bowed his head briefly. “My lady,” he said, drawing her eyes back to him. “Thank you for coming.”

She may have spoken length, but it was not flowery nonsense that wasted his time. Every part of it had been a piece of acknowledgement or information and that was the end of it. Houses such as the Tyrells enjoyed dancing with their words and containing hidden messages. Be it barbs or otherwise.

Sansa Tully got on with it; unlike the Tyrells.

_She knows the value of time._

His son approached them and stood by Lady Sansa’s side. A few paces to the girl’s flank, he presumed, was the Tully knight he’d agreed to accommodate.

Jaime took a step forward and half turned back to their guest, hopefully, his son’s future betrothed and wife. “Lady Sansa, I present my lord father, Tywin, son of Tytos, of House Lannister,” his son introduced how he’d been properly taught. Tywin disliked the reminder of his father, but custom dictated it necessary. “Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King.”

His son wasn’t overfond of the formality, but Jaime had done it with less dismissal than previous experiences. Typically, Jaime excluded ‘Shield of Lannisport’. That title was not a requirement and it was unusual for his son to speak it now.

_What difference caused this? The girl?_

Tywin witnessed Jaime introduce Lady Sansa to his uncles and soon after his aunt.

“…And Lady Genna, my aunt, Lady Sansa. You’ve met.”

Tywin watched the interaction between his sister and the Tully girl.

“Lady Sansa,” said Genna, smiling. “A pleasure to see you again.”

The girl gave a small curtsy. “The feeling is mutual, Lady Genna,” she replied and gestured to the knight. “And in my company is the captain of my retinue, Ser Karyl.” The mentioned knight bowed but said nothing. “Where our borders meet, bandits are known to lurk. Thankfully, we encountered no trouble and pray for the same blessing when we return.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow.

_We both know the lie, despite the truth concerning our borders. You do know diplomacy, girl._

“Naturally,” he spoke shortly after the girl’s eyes landed on him. “We will go to the Great Hall.”

Gesturing for his son to lead the way into Casterly Rock with the Lady Sansa by his side, Tywin watched the girl’s behaviour in a scenario where she didn’t know her environment.

He’d anticipated the girl losing her confidence once inside, however, there hadn’t been any shift in her attitude.

Genna was beside Tywin. “She’s doing well,” his sister commented quietly, drawing his attention. “With Cersei’s absence not explained, I’m expecting the girl to look at every corner we pass.”

_That’s undeniable._

Following his son and his intended betrothed into the Great Hall, Tywin witnessed Jaime’s eased behaviour compared to the times his bannermen brought their daughters to meet his son. Once they were all seated and served the bread and salt, Tywin took in the girl’s calm and respectful expression.

_Just what hides behind that pretty face of yours?_

 

SANSA STARK

The eyes she was looking into were missing the marble hardness she expected as they watched her. There was hardness; some of it was there, but given the rest of his body language it gave her the impression that this was normal for anyone looking at Tywin Lannister.

As was practice in Guest right, it went with the name that she invoked the assured safety for all by being the first to consume the food and drink presented under the roof of her host.

Sansa was uncomfortable in his presence as a rule, but she refused to let it show. Lifting up the bread and salt, Sansa took the first bite.

A moment later, Tywin mirrored her actions.

_It’s invoked now, but how long will it last?_

_And where is Cersei?_

_Why isn’t she here?_

There were two glass goblets where she was seated. Diluted wine and water.

She chose the water.

There was a glimpse of approval and she wasn’t sure why. It took but a moment to remember what Lyarra had told her.

_“…a weak-willed father…he’s set himself apart from such a man using his sharp mind. People say he hardly drank wine at his own wedding feast.”_

 She lifted the goblet up until it was near her mouth and made the toasting gesture before she drank.

Setting the glass down, Sansa saw he was the only Lannister to have not chosen wine. Except for Jaime, there was only one glass for him; water.

Once Lord Tywin finished his goblet, he opened the conversation as was a tradition. “No doubt you’re curious concerning my daughter,” he presumed and gestured towards Ser Karyl. “We both know why the man’s here.”

Sansa was quite aware that his first comment was a concealed question. She didn’t let her eyes waver from him. “Curiosity that needs no answering, my lord,” she replied with calm and honesty. “Measures have been requested and, from what I’ve seen, they’re currently met,” Sansa pointed out. “You’ve been true to your word thus far. Mayhaps we leave the reason unsaid and not let it taint this visit?”

Lord Tywin was silent for a moment and Sansa calmly waited. He looked serious. “Very well,” he told her in a tone that said to listen. “Should you desire prayer; the Casterly Rock sept will be open to you.”

_Think, Sansa, think. Why would he…?_

_CERSEI’S IN THE LANNISPORT SEPT?!_

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

Sansa Tully’s face had flickered with surprise she was quick to smother. He had almost missed it.

_Finally, an expression._

_Genna wasn’t wrong. She’s a sharp one._

_Unusually so, in fact._

The girl nodded as though she only heard the face value message. “Of course, my Lord Tywin.”

_The court would not best her easily._

Jaime, on the other hand, was looking thoughtful. His son being thoughtful was a combination he rarely saw. It intrigued him and he wondered whether there would be an outburst, however unlikely his son would understand what he truly said.

_Jaime knows better than to embarrass our house. He best not._

Sansa Tully had some attention watching his son as though she was thinking along the same lines. When his son dismissed the heavily veiled message, her full attention returned to Tywin.

_Interesting…_

“Lady Sansa, in the halls will be your handmaid,” he told her, the patient expression on the girl’s face looked as though he hadn’t hinted at his daughter’s whereabouts. “She will tend to your needs and lead you to the Great Hall for meals.” 

The girl bowed her head again. “Thank you, my lord,” she acknowledged graciously. Reaching into her pocket, Tywin witnessed the girl take out a sealed letter from a concealed pocket and hand it to a servant to pass to him. “I was asked by Lady Stark to deliver this. She sends her regards and apologies.”

Receiving the direwolf sigil on a semi-circle of red and another of blue wax instead of a full circle of grey, Tywin looked at the girl seated across the table before he broke the seal and read its content.

_Lord Tywin,_

_It is with regret that I inform you the Starks of Winterfell will be unable to attend the tourney to honour Viserys’ Targaryen’s nameday._

_My daughter, Lyanna, is showing signs of Red Spots. To risk the health of fellow attendees or our host would be ill form and my family is journeying home from Riverrun as you read this._

_With apologies._

_Lady Lyarra Stark_

_Lady of Winterfell._

 

Irritated that the Great House was not sending a single member, Tywin put the damned thing in his pocket to burn later away from the eyes of his guest. Now was not the time to permit any impression of lacking self-control. Being it servants or the lass seated across the table.

Watching Sansa Tully modestly awaiting a reply, he humoured her. “Thank you, Lady Sansa.” Rising from his seat, the girl did the same. “My son, Jaime, shall familiarise you with Casterly Rock.”

She gave him and his siblings a curtsy before Jaime joined her side. “Once again, I appreciate the invitation to your tourney and home, Lord Lannister.”

Bowing his head briefly, he looked at the backs of his son, his guest and the knight as they left the Great Hall.

The doors closed behind them.

She was a strange one; near unmovable composure and the mannerisms of an experienced Great Lady when only the age of nearly eleven. Hoster Tully’s daughter either, as Genna once said, knew ‘what she was doing’ or heavily practised her words prior to arriving.

Going over to the Great Hall hearth, Tywin removed the Stark letter from his pocket and lazily tossed it into the fire.

He heard Gerion chuckle and Tywin’s eyes snapped in his direction. Gerion looked amused. “Gods, Tywin, I haven’t watched a confident child before you in a long time.” His brother shook his head. “Ever, actually; even your own,” Gerion corrected himself. “How Jaime has any interest in her is beyond me. Little expression besides calm.”

Tywin said nothing, but Kevan turned to Gerion. “I’ve watched them for what must be two moons now. Word had it between the men that Lady Sansa was teaching him some form of Valyrian in the wheelhouse on the journey here.”

Tygett, who rarely spoke in a casual manner, looked disbelieving from his seat beside Gerion. “Jaime struggled with Westerosi. It’s no secret.”

Tywin agreeing with Tygett scarcely happened, yet a slip of a girl led to it now.  He approached the table with a reason already in his mind. “The written word was his weakness. He would not have agreed unless it was limited to speech.”

_Seems we have an intellectual._

Kevan, next to the Lord’s seat, nodded. “It was only speech if I was to guess,” Kevan admitted. “The second half of the journey scarcely had a word exchanged between them, according to the men.”

_A dispute?_

Movement from Genna’s side drew his attention. “Well, Tywin, it’s no wonder Hoster Tully’s so protective of that daughter,” his sister remarked. “Rescuing trade agreements, the maturity of a Great Lady and fulfilling the duties of one, and capable of two languages?” she rattled off. “She’s a credit to him and House Tully.”

Gerion met his eye and spoke. “If the other Great Houses learn of her abilities, they’ll be fighting for her,” he said with a hint of amusement. “Best draw up a proposal to Lord Tully before anyone else does.”

Tywin took his seat. “The Tyrells already have,” he told them, Kevan and Genna nodding in confirmation. “Ridiculous idea as it is.”

“Tywin,” Kevan said drawing all of their attention. “Hoster Tully mentioned the Tyrell offer to prove a point more than anything else. That’s the impression at least,” his eldest brother admitted.

Rising from his seat, Tygett made to leave but stopped before opening the door. “You have a jewel in your hand, brother.” Tywin watched Tygett carefully, his brother’s tone bordered a warning. “Don’t be a fool and lose it.”

_Lannisters don’t act like fools._

_Nor will I be goaded into acting blindly._

_Let’s see the true colours of Sansa Tully unravel._

 

SANSA STARK

Following Jaime through the Casterly Rock and taking in the appearance of the naturally lit castle, Sansa could see the beauty in the architecture by the men who’d turned what was quite literally a rock into a castle of breath-taking quality.

She could resist speaking her thoughts to Jaime.

“This…It’s stunning, Jaime. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She looked at him and could see he looked a little worried. “Riverrun must have seemed dull by comparison.”

That comment seemed to calm him.

Jaime shook his head. “Riverrun wasn’t boring, Sansa,” he told her and leading the way around the corner. “Casterly Rock has…well this,” Jaime said as he gestured to the reflective veins of some strange material residing within the rock, lighting the castle. “But Riverrun has nice people,” he finished.

“I might need to follow a handmaid to avoid getting lost,” she admitted feeling embarrassed that it was necessary. Jaime looked at her. “At home, I could tell where I was by what was outside the windows.”

“You’ll get used to it, Sansa,” he promised, his face showing no falsehood.

Sansa nodded.

She had never set foot in Casterly Rock in this life or the past. In King’s Landing the mentions of Casterly Rock involved tones of admiration or desire. It truly was an amazing place. Work had clearly been put into carefully carving the castle; there were no evident edges were errors had been smoothed over.

The walls themselves looked seamless; they weren’t comprised of stone and mortar like Winterfell, Riverrun, the Eyrie, or King’s Landing.

Unlike the Eyrie, where the structure had been built atop of the mountain, Casterly Rock was cut into the mountain.

Walking the halls and seeking any tells of where she was, Sansa followed Jaime’s lead until they had entered what was clearly a guest chamber. Her chambers until she departed for Riverrun. It was a natural beauty like the rest of the castle, but within this castle was Tywin Lannister; the demise of Robb.

When she was truly a little girl, who desired pretty things instead of Winterfell; she was a stupid little girl who believed the songs and stories could exist in real life. She knew better now, and here right now was another piece of proof that the songs were mere entertainment.

Joffrey had been the appealing prince she’d believed was from the songs, behind his face was the true horror that he was. Casterly Rock was beautiful, but she couldn’t help but feel wary of what was concealed inside it. Tywin Lannister was not a question, but who else besides Cersei could be a danger to her? What was hiding here that she didn’t know about?

_I played the lady, but did Lord Tywin see through my face?_

_He’s still a ruthless man. The Tarbeck and Reyne families suffered severe consequences for what they did; Lord Tywin has already seen to that this time. What will he do in the future?_

Sitting down on the mattress of her bed, Sansa’s eyes were focused on the floor. For a moment she could hear the sounds of armour and assumed Ser Karyl was present. “Ser Karyl,” she addressed, lifting her eyes to him. “Could you please wait outside the door? I’ll be fine here.”

The man gave a short bow and left the chamber with relative silence. She didn’t mind the missing interaction of speech; she had heard his voice a few times and knew what he sounded like, but the man had a reserved nature. Sansa preferred it that way.

Within the chamber were only herself and Jaime. Her handmaid was retrieving something for them to eat, for they had missed the midday meal when they arrived.

She was thumbing the red and gold of the Lannister bedding. She had conflicting feelings about the castle.

“Sansa,” Jaime said once they were alone. “I know you fear Father,” he whispered from where he stood. She looked up and met his eyes without hiding herself. “But why?”

Sansa took a breath without looking away. “I love my family, Jaime. I have a family after so long. You don’t know what that’s like.”

He took the seat at her desk. “ _Nothing_ will happen. I promise.” He moved over to sit beside her.  “Private. Remember?” “Nothing, Sansa. Nothing.”

“I remember,” she replied and saw him nod. Looking down at her hands clasped together, she closed her eyes and opened them again to look at the ceiling.

“You were good meeting Father, Sansa,” Jaime told her from beside her. She looked at him and searched his face.

Sansa swallowed and straightened her skirts. “Truly?”

“Yes. You didn’t look afraid at all.”

There was a knock at the door.

Sansa stood up and became the lady. “Enter,” she called. She recognised her handmaid as the girl brought in two plates of food and several handmaids carried steaming buckets into the bathing chamber. Sansa accepted her plate. “Thank you, Rosina.”

Sitting down at her desk, Sansa saw Jaime grab her chair in front of the looking glass and joined her to eat the light meal. “Food,” Jaime said eagerly. “I’m starving.”

“I doubt you’re starving, Jaime,” she deadpanned and began eating her own.

Jaime just rolled his eyes and continued on. She couldn’t resist laughing at the boyish behaviour. Such casual interaction was a relief after meeting his father and relatives. Finishing the meal, Sansa left the plate on the desk, which Rosina took, already holding Jaime’s.

“Well,” Jaime said awkwardly, watching the handmaids leave. “I’ll go now.”

Sansa smiled once the handmaids had their backs to them. “Mayhaps for the best,” she agreed and watched him take a few uncomfortable steps at first before leaving her chambers; door closing behind him.

_Jaime is kind. I hope that never changes._

Going over to the looking glass, Sansa turned her head until she could see where her thin braids joined and went through Lyarra’s gift, which shined like silver. For a moment, she turned the plain circular bauble the right way up until it showed its true appearance and meticulous detail.

An open-mouthed direwolf.

The Stark sigil.

Her hair was held together through the mouth and she gently pulled the sigil down until her braids fell away and unravelled.

Bringing the small lightweight bauble that had been on Lyarra’s bracelet to her face; Sansa fondly thumbed her first sigil and released a heavy breath.

Glancing into the looking glass, her eyes fell upon her name pendant from Mother and Father.

_I am a Stark._

_I am a Tully._

_Family, Duty, Honour for Winter is Coming._

Removing the necklace, Sansa kissed both gifts and placed both of them in the concealed pocket of her clean silver and blue dress for dinner.

_A Tully._

_A Stark._

_I am both._

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

His brothers, sister and eldest son were the only Lannisters present to dine with their guest.

The girl herself had arrived with Jaime, walking into the Great Hall with an air different from their previous encounter.

It was a minute difference.

Sansa Tully still had the airs and graces he desired within his own daughter for the sake of House Lannister’s pride, but they now contained more ease.

It was the eyes that told him. He knew from the time at court that the eyes of any person were the most telling feature in any expression. Whether or not a member of court regretted an earlier jape was always evident in their eyes, especially once he had them alone.

To his knowledge, the child hadn’t made such acts of disrespect in his presence or behind his back. If she’d in fact done so, her eyes would be showing anxiety to leave or fear, but he witnessed neither in those eyes.

He only knew there was a small difference.

Once satisfied, Tywin broke away from his thoughts while eating and addressed her. “Lady Sansa.”

She made eye contact and there was only a calmness showing. “My lord?”

He wanted to see how her mind worked. “If you were to decide the date of my tourney, what would be your choice?”

Sansa Tully put down her cutlery then her hands in her lap. He knew this technique; a lady’s way of creating time yet being polite. “Day two Third Moon, my lord.”

_Good choice in short time._

“And why that date?”

The girl met his eyes. “Viserys Targaryen’s nameday was Day two First Moon, this information was released shortly afterwards. Word of the intended tourney was spreading across Westeros prior to his survival, giving knights outside the Westerlands the chance to travel to Lannisport. Any remaining arrangements would have time for completion by choosing that date.”

On its own, the answer was sufficient, however, it seemed there was more to her reasoning and he gestured for her to continue out of curiosity. She complied. “Day two Third Moon also has a symbolic nature should King Aerys desire such a thing,” Sansa Tully explained. “Prince Viserys is the second living child of King Aerys. Day two to acknowledge the prince as the second dragon. Third Moon to acknowledge the thrice-headed sigil.”

Tywin knew there was no chance for rehearsal to answer his question. The reasoning was thorough and he’d given the concept of a symbolic date no consideration despite King Aerys’ fancy for such things. He knew the King wouldn’t have overly cared if Tywin’s tourney wasn’t symbolic, but it was a convenient reason for Tywin to extend preparations concerning knights of other kingdoms.

_There have been numerous letters from knights beyond my borders._

He also noticed her speech pattern was mature for her age. “Well thought out, my lady.” He didn’t tell her that she’d just persuaded him to make his tourney two sennights later. “On the topic of namedays, I believe your own is nearing.” His comment had a questioning tone.

“Yes, my Lord Tywin,” she answered. “Day eight Third Moon.”

_The girl’s little over a moon from eleven. Jaime’s the moon following._

From the corner of his eye, Tywin could see Genna looking at him with an expression that clearly told him that the Tully girl had surprised even her. His sister’s comment on wits concerning the girl hadn’t implied having an able mind to this extent. It didn’t escape his notice that Sansa Tully saw the surprise as well and glanced at Kevan who was looking knowingly at Tywin. His eldest brother was involved in the tourney plans.

She returned her attention to Tywin; expression unchanged.

_Let’s see what else you can devise, girl._

But she was the first to speak. “Word has it your tourney will be quite the memorable event, my lord,” she complimented. “I’m aware of at least one competitor from Dorne whose family will watch both the joust and melee. I imagine knights from the North also intend to participate.”

Tywin felt that the girl had saved him the effort of him needing to frame his scenario. “A joust and melee; knights from every direction of Westeros. The King’s not the most patient man,” he commented, drawing her attention in. “Your date was well-argued. What would you do to satisfy King Aerys, Lady Sansa?”

He witnessed her thinking for a minute; his brothers and sister were watching her. Jaime was watching him. “Father-.“ Tywin lifted his hand off the table and Jaime was silenced.

She made eye contact. “Kings desire the best. So give them the best knights; the melee and joust,” she began. “I would structure the tourney to be a two-day event. The first day for preliminary rounds for the melee and joust on Day one Third Moon. On the next day, the best knights would be refreshed for the final melees and jousts. If King Aeyrs has no interest in seeing the beginning he won’t have to and merely attend on Day two Third Moon when the strongest and most agile knights compete for the title of category champions.”

“San- Lady Sansa,” his son said. “I would have taken a long time to answer that.”

_Clearly friends if he made that mistake. The Westerlands may survive succession yet._

Tywin looked at his son and smirked. He could tell the boy was perplexed by Tully’s daughter. “You should take lessons from her, Jaime,” he suggested, watching his son flush. He turned to his guest. “My son does make a point. You’re a sharp thing that’s been hidden away in Harrenhal for some time.”

She was unbothered by the line of questioning. “Being bedridden doesn’t prevent someone from reading, my lord. I left Harrenhal once my health was stable,” Lady Sansa explained. “Learning theory merely means I need the practise to carry the knowledge out.”  

Sansa Tully had twice demonstrated her abilities concerning management on large scales. Instead of floundering like a shocked fool, she took all elements into consideration without requiring extensive time to do so. Tywin glance at Genna when she interrupted his thoughts about the Tully girl.

“Gods, Lady Sansa. Why didn’t a word of you and your intellect escape from Harrenhal sooner?”

Looking at the girl, Tywin was glad to have tested her mind. He’d drawn similar conclusions to resolve the issue concerning the quantity of participating knights. More knights meant more gold in the form of entry fees and this would be no cheap tourney compared to those he’d seen. This was to honour the life of Viserys Targaryen, despite how much Tywin loathed the father.

“Lady Genna, I was secluded for most of my girlhood. Lord Tully and Lord Whent arranged for a trusted healer to help me grow strong, and a tutor to ensure I was well-educated should the Gods bless me with a chance; which they have. The healer and tutor were two of few people I saw.”

His sister smiled at the girl. “You’d done well for yourself despite the odds. Had anyone ever told me your past after we met in Riverrun, I’d be tempted to call them a liar.”

Sansa Tully gave a polite bow of the head. “Thank you for the high praise, my lady. To allow illness to stop me from what I can do would be an embarrassment to my house.”

The conversation between Genna and Lady Sansa was concluding, and Tywin rose to his feet, which all others mimicked. Jaime walked to Lady Sansa’s side and the girl gave the Lannisters a deep curtesy. “My lord, my lady, Sers, this has been a most interesting meal and I look forward to the rest of my stay.”

Jaime bowed. “Goodnight Father, Uncles, Aunt,” his son said before turning to him. “May I have permission to ride on the morrow?”

Kevan’s twitching lips drew Tywin’s attention for a second. Tywin answered his son. “Return in time for breaking of fast, Jaime.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Once his son, Sansa Tully and that knight were gone, his siblings simultaneously turned to him.

Genna broke the silence. “Tywin, you’re an intelligent man. Write to Tully and betroth that girl to Jaime,” she urged him. “She’s poised, smart and not shy to show it. Gods, she practically planned the foundations of a tourney for a king.”

_There has yet been a flaw for me to see._

_I want to know what it is._

Tygett stiffly turned towards Tywin from where he stood. “I stand by what I said earlier, Tywin.”  Tygett left the hall without looking back.

Gerion nodded to Tywin before he left, soon followed by Kevan and Genna, both bidding him goodnight.

_The girl has a mind._

_The moment I see trouble I will break the betrothal._

_And Tully will agree to this union._

_My son is the Heir of Casterly Rock._

 

SANSA STARK

Jaime was escorting her to her chambers and stopped at the door. He was looking at her baffled by what she had done in the Great Hall.

“That-Just- Gods, Sansa!”

She understood he was trying to convey the shock she gave him by what she’d told his father. It was safe to chuckle now that Lord Tywin wasn’t nearby. “I’m surprised he asked me, Jaime,” she told him when she entered her chambers and closed the door. “I know he was testing me.”

“Clearly,” said Jaime, shaking his head. He looked up. “Father never japes. He WAS testing you. And you gave answers he liked.”

Sansa smiled in amusement while Jaime was still processing what had happened at dinner. “Where would you like to meet for the ride on the morrow?”

Jaime grinned at the subject. “Here. I’ll take you to the stables in the morning,” he replied. He was about to say something when a thought interrupted. “Where’s Oberyn? I didn’t see him with us when we arrived.”

“You needn’t worry, Jaime. He rode to Lannisport,” Sansa shared which relieved Jaime. “You better save those Dragons,” she teased.

“Sansa!!”

In the privacy of her chambers she broke into laughter. “I couldn’t resist.”

Jaime shook his head and made for the door. “Goodnight, Sansa.”

“Sleep well, Jaime.”

Watching him go, Sansa waited until the door was closed. Walking over to the looking glass she looked at her reflection.

She removed Lyarra’s gift from her braids.

She took of the necklace from Mother and Father.

_As a Stark;_

_As a Tully;_

_I will make my family proud._

_I WILL succeed._

_It will take a lot for me to stumble and fall, Lord Tywin._


	19. The Sept's Sinner

CERSEI LANNISTER

_Day 16, 2 nd Moon, 276 AC_

_Every morning it’s the same._

_Every day it’s the same._

_Every night it’s the same._

In her sept chamber, and dressed in the grey garb she had no choice but to wear, Cersei lifted the hood that concealed her hair.

_They can pretend every girl is the same._

_But I know better._

_My soul has two bodies that entered the world together._

_This face is only half of me._

_They can pretend all they want._

_Tully pretended she was brave but used guards to stop me; too weak to do it herself._

Looking into her perfect reflection, Cersei smirked as she remembered the blood and bruising on the whore’s cheek. The yelp could not have sounded sweeter after fighting to protect her other half from the pathetic clutches of the trout.

Cersei could see what the Tully had been doing. Daily rides, often at Jaime’s side, the laughter, the smiles, pretending to like the monster to please Jaime.

All of it.

All of it an act to steal her other half.

She didn’t regret striking Tully; the tart deserved it for trying to take away what was not hers.

_She turned Jaime against me, the little cunt. And now Father has thrown me away like filth into this sept to learn the Faith; such a farce. And men watching the exit so I can’t return to my other half._

_Not a sept, but a prison._

_They won’t keep us apart for much longer. Jaime is mine._

Cersei had made attempts to escape since Father abandoned her to the septons and septas, but word of her efforts had clearly reached Father if there were men ready to drag her back into the sept.

_I have to let them think it’s safe to relax watching the doors._

_I’ll let them think I won’t try again._

Leaving her chambers, Cersei made for the kitchen where she was expected to prepare stew alongside the girls here training to become septas; to feed that stew to the suffering people before breaking her own fast. Not that she ever had. She intended to refuse, once again, to cooperate in such a thing better suited to a servant.

And so she did.

Sitting on a seat arrogantly while the others worked away like perfect holy girls, Cersei merely watched until the shadow of a septa was cast upon her face.

“Cersei, it appears you have no appreciation for the Mother’s mercy of granting you your needs,” Septa Felys commented, gesturing for Cersei to stand which she did not do.

_You can’t do anything to me and you will release me from this sept soon enough._

It came as a surprise when two septas she didn’t recognise each grasped a shoulder and made her stand. She felt no fear towards these women and stared Septa Felys in the eyes, daring her to do something. The septa didn’t look cowed and merely nodded to each sister, who led Cersei away from the kitchens by the shoulders.

They’d let go of her soon enough.

But they didn’t and were leading her in a new direction; in one she didn’t know. There was no need to worry and Cersei doubted the women would do anything. But by the end of their walk, she was confused about why they would be in such a dark and dank place.

Septa Felys emerged from the corner Cersei had turned not long before. “You’ve read the book aloud during the group studies of our text, but mayhaps you need learning of a different kind to grasp just what it is you have than those who live without.”

Cersei didn’t have long to think about what the septa had meant before the other two brought her into a bare room with the only light being a grate near the ceiling. It looked like a cell and she immediately tried to escape, but the women closed her in the cell alone. Their footsteps’ echoes becoming weaker as they walked away.

_Just like Father throwing me away when I don’t do what he wants._

_How original._

It was mocking as it was insulting to lock her away like a criminal lowborn, and Cersei had no intention of being like her grandfather and let lesser beings mock her or steal from her. She would be like Father and avenge the wrongs done to her. To make them rue the day they dared to put her in here.

Without concern, Cersei remained in that chamber waiting for the septas to return; not that she could leave. They would always come back; just as they had unlocked her bedchamber not long after Father had put her in that shameful chamber that was deserved by the scum of Westeros; not the daughter of a Great House.

She knew their game.

She knew how to fool them.

_They want a regretful little girl._

_They’ll see one._

_But they won’t get one._

Biding her time in the chamber with no furniture, Cersei did what it would take to get out.

The silence of a girl thinking her regrets.

But Cersei was thinking something else entirely.

_Mother wouldn’t have stood for Father putting me in such a place. She loved Jaime and me. My mother would never have wanted me here, but the little monster killed her. He took her away and left us with a colder father._

The Tully tart had her claws in Jaime, controlling him, and if Cersei had to make the girl mysteriously vanish then she would make sure it would happen. Cersei saw her reflection in Jaime and she had to protect her other self from anyone trying to take that part of her away.

_If the monster could kill Mother and get away with it, then I can kill the tart and get away with it._

_She will not live to regret taking Jaime._

He was her.

She belonged to no one.

_And that’s how it will always be._

In her mind, Cersei imagined the different ways she would like the little wench to die. Gruesome, filled with screams of pain, and the pathetic girl whimpering at her feet. Some of them she would be able to do without anyone knowing it was her, but others risked the chance of that girl screaming out for help and Cersei’s name.

But she would get what she wanted.

The whore will die and no one would think it was Cersei.

_It will be more pleasing than slapping her and so bad people would seek a cat’s paw, not me._

The thoughts satisfied Cersei and kept her distracted from her surroundings for quite a time. She enjoyed the ideas to the point that it took the clenching of her stomach to realise she hadn’t broken her fast this morning. Looking at the grate, she could see the sun was beginning to darken.

_How long have I been in this wretched place?_

Looking up at the door expecting a septa to open it, Cersei was furious when no one came. She’s been in here for half a day, if not more, and no food since last night. Those women had made her fast because she refused to cook.

_The servants of Casterly Rock wouldn’t have dared!_

For years since the monster murdered her mother, Cersei had never been denied anything she wanted and no matter what she did no one spoke out against it. Aunt Genna would scold her when she visited, but not that Cersei really listened.

_I don’t listen to Jaime and now he’s controlled by Tully._

_I will kill that wench when I have the chance._

Eventually, a septa came and opened the door, key in their hand. Cersei rose to her feet and gave a meek curtsy and murmurs of regret that would prevent them from babbling about the gods. It seemed to stop the woman from saying anything, but the expression was not one of relief or belief.

Septa Felys didn’t praise her for learning from mistakes and not that Cersei expected it either. The woman said nothing before leading Cersei to her bedchamber where a meal awaiting her on the shabby desk in the corner. Going to the meal without so much as a word of thanks for the food, Cersei watched the woman leave without uttering a word or touching the pocket where Cersei knew the key was kept.

The food was horribly bland, not much worse than any other day, but it was the only food she’d seen for nearly a day. So hungry that she would dare touch it, Cersei forced it down as quickly as possible and washed away the lingering taste with the goblet of water provided.

Cersei left her bedchamber and went to the window of the sept that gave her the best view of Casterly Rock’s imposing structure. It resided so close to Lannisport that she could make out the main and prominent watchtower facing Lannisport.

_It’s like I can almost reach out and touch it._

Behind her, Cersei recognised the measured strides of Septa Felys coming from a hall or two away and she quickly made herself scarce. The septa had come to know that this spot was Cersei’s favourite place to linger and think. Since the time that Cersei realised that, she made sure not to get caught there again.

Everything that left that septa’s mouth was infuriating or boring and Cersei had no interest in getting taken to a random chamber to endure it.

Later on, when it was time for the group study when Cersei was brought to the chamber, once again by septas, where the other girls were seated, she pretended to participate. Turning the pages of the book given to her, Cersei made sure her expression was one of attentiveness or risk getting called upon. But truly, she was merely mimicking the behaviour of the other girls while her mind was in another place entirely. 

However, the false expression didn’t seem to work this time and Septa Felys addressed her.

“Cersei,” was the terse tone.

“Septa Felys,” she replied in an innocent voice, trying to get the septa to lower her guard. It didn’t seem to work this time.

The woman was still stern looking when she spoke. “Recite from the text the pages on the Mother.”

_I’d hit you with the text if I didn’t know you had finally grown the spine to lock me in that dank cell._

Grudgingly, but hiding her hate for it, Cersei read it out like a perfect girl the large section about mercy, protection, and keeping the fortunate and unfortunate safe. It was all babble. All of it.

Had the Mother had mercy, she would have protected Cersei’s own mother from the danger that was her youngest brother when he came into the world. She died because of him. It was for this reason that Cersei didn’t care about what the gods would think about her and Jaime. It didn’t seem to matter whether you prayed or not.

_I prayed the monster would die and get Mother back but nothing happened._

_I spent days on my knees hoping Mother would live._

The section was an entire waste of time as far as Cersei was concerned and she didn’t bother paying any attention after reading the Mother aloud. Her other half should be with her where he belonged and if the Seven didn’t like it then it was their problem and not hers.

Leaving the chamber with the rest of the girls once the septa was done sharing her nonsense with them, Cersei wandered the halls alone and came upon two voices behind an ornate door; one voice she knew well and hated, the other male and unfamiliar to her.

There was the scratching of a quill for a moment before the man spoke. “She’s getting worse you say?”

“Aye,” replied Septa Felys, Cersei had been surrounded by that woman daily for a moon now.

“How so?” presumably the septon asked.

Cersei glanced around the hall and saw there was no one near or coming. She continued the listen.

“She flaunts any instruction and even half a day in the Cell of Reflection did nothing.”

The man sighed audibly. “And you know the cell did nothing?”

“I _know_ it did nothing, septon,” Septa Felys persisted. “That child may try to be as much of a mummer as she wishes but it’s evident when she does it.”

Cersei bristled at the implication that she couldn’t conceal secrets or thoughts she didn’t want anyone else to know. She’d been doing it for years in Casterly Rock and Father never once confronted her about being so close with her other half. At home, she must have been convincing that nothing existed between them.

“Septa Felys,” Septon muttered sounding frustrated. “The lord will want more news on his daughter soon. I’ll need something to pass on.”

At the measured strides of Septa Felys, Cersei smirked at the thought of getting under the irritating woman’s skin. The septa was pacing back and forth inside, not approaching the door.

“There’s nothing good to pass on, Septon. This child was utterly defiant at the beginning, as you well know, before she was cooperating unbelievably so and tried to escape. Now she’s a child that holds no fear towards any of us.”

“And what would you suggest we do, Septa Felys? We’re of the Faith, not prison guards to beat her into submission,” he replied sounding close to admonishing Septa Felys. It would have amused Cersei if he did.

It had been a war of will against that septa. The others were mere sheep that suggested she do things; not make her suffer for defying like Septa Felys. Cersei only did a wasteful job when the septa made her do something though, so the woman had resorted to withholding food from her until a task was complete. However, Septa Felys didn’t seem to dare do it too often, mayhaps fearing consequences from Father.

_I am Father’s daughter. Harm me and he will make you wish you never had a nameday._

There was a heavy sigh of determination from the septa. “We’re too tolerant of the girl’s antics, Septon. After twelve hours in the cell and fasting since her meal last night Cersei Lannister has shown no remorse.” The pacing started again and Cersei smiled. “We need a firmer hand on the girl. After the Cell of Reflection, she was back to her defiant self and pretended to be paying attention to the afternoon study of the text, The Seven-Pointed Star.”

“We’re not the Faith Militant, Septa Felys. Everyone knows what happened to the last one,” Septon commented in resignation sounding ready to give up. That idea excited Cersei and she hoped to have truly worn down the resolve of those keeping her here. She would be with the other half of herself again and Tully would never steal him. “We are of the Faith of the Seven, but those sparrows are another matter entirely.”

“I’m not suggesting we do such a thing, but that girl knows there’s a limit to what we can do without angering her father. Write a letter to inform Lord Tywin of this predicament and see how he responses.”

The sound of a man’s steps in the chamber made Cersei ready to flee but it sounded like he was going to a window, not the door. “Has there been any repent at all?”

“Lord Tywin’s daughter may think she can fool me with her mummer’s farce, but I see tells.”

The septon sighed from within the chamber. “Do what you can for the meantime,” he instructed, a chair scraping on the floor. “I’ll send a rider with an explanation to Lord Tywin.”

“As you wish, Septon. But for our sake, I pray Lord Tywin takes his daughter back-“

_Finally!_

“-but I doubt he will without results.”

_No! I’ll get my Jaime back if it’s the last thing I do!_

Walking away from the door where she was eavesdropping, Cersei aimlessly wandered the halls of the sept thinking.

Father didn’t want her back without being a different girl and the members of the sept knew it. Unless she learnt how to better fake her expressions, Cersei knew that she would be stuck here and kept from her other half that she needed to reclaim.

It escaped Cersei how she could fool Father about Jaime and still fooling him, yet the septa was claiming she could tell when she was speaking a lie or being a mummer. Father was said to be one of the smartest, if not the smartest, men of Westeros, but she and Jaime had had no trouble keeping their bond secret.

One way or another, Cersei was going to get back to Casterly Rock before Father betrothed Jaime to a girl.

Before abandoning her to this sept, Father had given her the feeling that he had plans about Jaime already.

She was not going to let that happen.

_Jaime is me._

_And no one owns me._

_I own me._

_I’ll be their perfect little student for a while…_

_Day 23, 2 nd Moon, 276 AC_

_I won’t do this much longer._

A sennight since hearing Septa Felys speaking with the septon, Cersei was still trailed by Septa Felys but it was clear to the girl that the septa was struggling to believe the way that Cersei wasn’t defying her so much.

In the mornings in the kitchens alongside the girls training to become septas, Cersei grudgingly participated in preparing the stew for the unfortunate; and she didn’t do a half-measure job. Cersei knew she would be kept here longer if her work wasn’t done properly.

In the readings of the text, Cersei practised speaking with a voice that hid her hate for Septa Felys when saying a section on the Seven aloud when asked. She never volunteered to do it, but she did it when called upon.

During the meals, she ate the bland food and hid her disgust the best she could. This food was nothing like the meals served at Casterly Rock, but if pretending to eat it without protest meant she would be out of here and back to Casterly Rock sooner, then so be it.

It was only yesterday they told her to help with sweeping the area where the people of Lannisport would pray; they’d watched her like a hawk, their eyes flitting to the doors waiting for her to flee.

She never did and it confused them.

They always told her to do things instead of asking. It appeared they’d learned that asking anything of Cersei was pointless and meant the task would never be done.

They had to tell her to.

That was the level of defiance Cersei believed she could afford to have, and it seemed to be working.

_Only another sennight of this and I’m fleeing._

She’d listened to the talks behind the door of the septon, trying to learn how often they communicated with Father. How long she would need to be the perfect girl to get out of here. It had been a lack of luck that she never found out, which was grating on her nerves.

_This work is humiliating and for each day I am here, I will make them regret ordering me to do these things._

_These tasks belong to lowborn servants._

_Not a highborn daughter of Tywin Lannister._

_I won’t do this for much longer._

_I will end this mummery of being the perfect girl soon and find an escape soon._

Dusting the monuments representing the Seven, Cersei deliberately left her equipment behind one of them. Just because she had been ordered to cleaning the Seven, it didn’t mean that she had been told to put away what she had used to do it.

It irritated the septas, which pleased Cersei; she wasn’t going let them walk over her like a rug.

In the area where the public prayed before the Seven, Cersei had noticed how most of them were men kneeling before the Warrior; no doubt wishing for victory in the tourney.

_I’ll use the tourney to escape. Everyone will be watching it and not me._

With an idea forming in her mind, Cersei made sure not to glance in the direction of the doors out to Lannisport. It was extremely tempting, but persuading the septas that she was different now was taking a long time. Naturally, Septa Felys doubted her change in behaviour the most.

She still followed her in the sept except for the days when she was needed somewhere else.

Carefully casting her eyes around the area of prayer, Cersei noticed that Septa Felys was absent from the shadows. Wondering if someone else was watching her it became apparent that there were no septas lurking in the shadows to watch Cersei.

_Seems the wenches have something else to do._

Pleased that she was alone, Cersei glanced out the nearest window facing the entrance and could see the guards lazing in the nearby shade.

_Damn the guards._

_There has to be another way out but I’ve already searched the entire sept._

Anger and a desire for revenge gathered in her mind, and Cersei turned away from the window before she destroyed what progress she had made in fooling the people who kept her here. Crossing the prayer floor, Cersei saw a drab Dornish woman she remembered all too well visiting Casterly Rock three years ago.

Elia Martell.

_You tried to take Jaime from me._

_Didn’t work for you though, did it? Father had the mind to refuse._

Smirking, Cersei didn’t let the Dornish trash see her. She would not let the _princess_ have the satisfaction of seeing her here dressed like a girl training to become a septa. No matter how much the flat-chested wench pretended to be a kind woman.

_Father better have the mind to refuse Tully just the same, or Tully will be where her sigil belongs._

Walking away and not hearing any comment be uttered from that Martell, Cersei considered it a success that the visitor had failed to realise who she was. She won’t let herself be mocked by anyone for her current position. Not that is was one she intended to remain in for long.

However, coming from the side of her in the public area, Cersei noticed that someone was staring right at her in disbelief. “Cersei? Is that you?”

She knew that voice like she knew her own hand.

_My other half._

_Jaime._

He had come for her. He was going to get her out of here and back to Casterly Rock. The Tully wasn’t in sight.

_He must have gotten rid of her._

_The rest of me broke free of that wench._

“Jaime,” Cersei uttered in relief, closing the gap and embracing the rest of herself. “You’re here.”

At first, he didn’t push her away, but once she started tightening her grip and pulling him closer, Jaime resisted and stepped away.

His eyes lost their calm appearance and became watchful. It reminded her of their time in Riverrun after the day he had barred the door to his chambers at night.

_No._

_That wench still has a hold on him._

_Where is she?!_

Rage running through her, Cersei checked the area in front of the monuments but didn’t see the Tully she wanted dead.

A smile grew.

_He came alone._

In front of her was her other half. Alone and unhindered by that Tully tart around to interrupt or trying to steal what was not hers. They were together again, and they will be close again. And this time there will be no place in his mind for him to think about any other girls.

Nothing would keep them apart again.

It looked like she had to get her missing part back slowly if he wouldn’t hold and comfort her like he used to.

She started with the obvious question. “Have you known I was here like a prisoner?” she asked him clearly, leading the way to the halls where visitors did not go.

“A prisoner?” Jaime repeated back to her. He didn’t believe her.

_How can he not believe me? He is me._

“Yes, Jaime. A prisoner,” she confirmed, taking a seat in an alcove she favoured. “The things they make me do here is an insult to our house.” She had the urge to pull him to her and reclaim him, but the distance between them would give him time to dodge.

He was curious. She knew his expressions as much as she knew her own. The two were so alike that Father couldn’t tell them apart if they stood side by side and dressed the same. Their similarities told her so much about the other half of herself that it was like a book to Cersei. “What are they making you do?” he said, eyes not searching for traces or hints of injury.

It was wrong that he didn’t seem to care too much. It was in his face, his body, his posture. Cersei could tell and it angered her to know that her other half wasn’t concerned for her.

_Why is he even here then?_

_Don’t worry, my half, you will care again. Whatever it takes._

It took everything in Cersei not to leap to him; to simply answer his question. “It’s humiliating,” she complained to him. “Every morning before breaking my fast, I have to work like a common servant beside other girls and make food for those too pathetic to feed themselves. If I don’t they make me go without food until dinner.” The anger was seeping through her. “They shouldn't be doing this to me!”

Looking to him, it was clear that her words hadn’t overly affected him in some way. It was like it didn’t concern him what Septa Felys and her weak followers were making her do. He blinked at the news but didn’t ask her anything about the cooking.

_How could I mean so little to him?!_

“There’s more, Jaime,” Cersei continued, rising from the alcove and leading him further into the sept. “They deny me food until dinner any time I refuse to do what they want. I won’t become a starved lowborn from the streets!”

He finally looked to her, but again there was only a glimmer of concern quickly replaced with curiosity. “What else do you do here?”

It seemed that it was going to take a lot for him to become the half he used to be. Her anger and indignation about what she had been going through here hardly affected him. Had this been moons ago, Jaime would be furious and demand that he could take her back home.

But there was none of that right now.

Cersei decided to do the best she could to get pity from him. From there she could work on getting him back under her control.

Taking him to the kitchens and showing him where she was made to labour away for the starving, Cersei retrieved two goblets of water, adding something she’d stolen into his.

Jaime didn’t seem to notice the different taste of the water by the manner he drank like a man from a Dornish desert.

Not saying a word or a telling expression after managing to slip it to him, Cersei continued onto the study area that would be empty right now and explained the repetitive learning about each of the Seven. There was some sympathy from him. More than she expected so soon after that goblet.

“The food is disgusting, Jaime. Nothing at all like home…where I should be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You eat it,” he remarked, seeming more at ease. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Eat or nothing. I know my choice,” she told him, noticing that he wasn’t as guarded as before. Internally smirking, she led the way through the areas she had to keep clean. It seemed a calm voice helped additionally in wearing away at his reluctance of speaking with her or let her closer than arm’s length.

It was working.

It was like she was learning a new way to manipulate Jaime. Before Tully became known by Westeros, Jaime would do and side with her on everything no matter whether she was raging or happy. It seemed that a calm voice made him feel it fine to relax his guard against her.

_I will reclaim you, my half._

With the question she’d wanted to know for nearly a moon, Cersei spoke with forced calm. “Do you know when Father will take me home?” she asked while slowly leading the way around the prayer area and down a different hall to show him one last thing…or two.

“I don’t know,” he admitted to her. “I only found out today that you were being kept here.”

“And not before?” She kept her voice controlled, but she felt furious it had taken him this long to get here.

Jaime shook his head. “Father refused to tell me,” he began while following Cersei around a corner. Cersei heard the sound of shoes unlike the septas and septons but paid it no mind. Most likely one of the girls here. “I figured it out.”

Cersei looked at him in disbelief. “Figured it out? Figured what out?”

Her half looked offended but shook his head. “A vague comment he said to someone when talking about you.”

“So he hasn’t told you?”

“No,” was the quiet reply.

Cersei made sure her response was gentle when she led the way into the last chamber. “You defied Father for me, Jaime,” she commented and opening the door to her bedchamber. “You haven’t in a while.”

“Yes, you’re my twin, Cersei,” her half replied with a smile like it was the most obvious thing in the world; eyes gaining a sheen from the sedative.

That answer was not the one she had been wanting, but the slowness in his speech and smile balanced out her irritation; it was working and he would be hers soon enough. Giving it time, Cersei sat at her desk and watched as he was looking at the bareness of her chambers.

He turned to her, eyes completely glassy. “It must be strange having a chamber like this.”

The words hadn’t slowed further but he didn’t react when she rose from her seat. Keeping her glee inside herself, Cersei took the risk and embraced her other self. “It’s horrible, Jaime.” He didn’t resist and instead held her tight.

_Good._

She pulled him towards her and it turned out he had become rather biddable. There was no resistance from her other half.

Cersei didn’t bother testing boundaries and her searing kiss met equal force after a moment.

Cersei couldn’t believe it. It worked. She had him back. She finally had the other half of herself back and more cooperative than the time she’d lost him.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Cersei.”

_I’ll never lose you again, my half._

Unable to put it into words she removed his doublet and didn’t stop there.

Jaime faltered for a moment as though to resist but it was merely a false alarm.

“Jaime, take mine off.”

And he did.

As naked as their namedays they touched one another the same way they used to.

Metal crashed against stone at the door.

Jaime’s glassy eyes became clear and furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cersei has got to be the hardest POV I've done. I'm not writing her again in a hurry.
> 
> Cersei and Jaime were a special case.  
> Don't expect me to write smut between Sansa and Jaime when they're at this age (nearly 11 and 10 respectively). Too early for my comfort zone folks.


	20. Twin Trouble

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 23, 2 nd Moon, 276 AC_

 

Standing in the open doorway with a dagger in hand he’d hit against the stone wall, Tywin silently struggled to deny any further what had been happening inside Cersei’s bedchamber.

He just witnessed his twins display the proclivities of the Targaryens, but not the full extent that that house was known for.

Thankfully, the sworn knights charged with watching his son had the sense to block the way and chances of anyone else looking upon this scene.

The sound of his dagger against the wall had merely surprised Cersei; she didn’t appear to care. However, the sound seemed to alter something in his son, who leapt away from Cersei towards his clothes looking enraged at her. His daughter merely eyed Jaime’s naked form in favour of covering herself.

Tywin entered the bedchamber and closed the door firmly behind himself, eyes flicking between his children. His son was uncomfortable where he stood dressed while his daughter had only a bedsheet covering her as she laid on the bed unfazed.

When he followed one of his son’s assigned knights here from the port at their behest, Tywin had never thought that he would be seeing this.

There’d been murmured rumours in the halls of Casterly Rock. There’d been the tantrums of Cersei when the topic concerned his son’s betrothal and future marriage. There’d been her obsessive behaviour witnessed by his siblings in Riverrun where Guest right was broken.

Those he could dismiss as lies or exaggerations.

But this…

He saw it with his very eyes; burned into his memory and now a permanent piece of knowledge he’d gotten by his own hand.

_My own son and daughter…I dismissed it but the truth stands before me._

“Father,” said Jaime, disrupting the turmoil in Tywin’s mind. “I don’t think of her like that.” Jaime took a step forward. “I used to, but not anymore,” he admitted to Tywin.

Cersei sat upright and angry. “No! You’re mine, Jaime. We entered this world together. We belong together. I refuse to let anything stand in our way!”

“You put something in my drink!” Jaime shot back in an angry whisper. “I said no before Riverrun. I said no during Riverrun. My mind was blurred when you gave me that goblet today.”

He had no intention of permitting this commotion to go on any longer, putting his shock aside for now. A girl alone yelling in a chamber had little means of creating gossip beyond comments of growing madness. However, if he remained in this chamber with his son there would be a larger likelihood of the truth reaching the public.

_I refuse to allow that._

Of his two children, his son appeared to be most likely to cooperate. Gesturing to Jaime to leave the chamber with the goblet, Tywin watched as his son eagerly did so without looking back, there was an imbalance in his walking; that in itself told him a few things.

_He was drugged._

He followed his son out into the hall and turned to the two knights standing outside the door of Cersei’s chamber. “If word of this becomes public knowledge, I will know who betrayed me and react accordingly. You will make sure it doesn’t,” he told the knights who were guarding the door. “No one enters or leaves this chamber. Remain here until I say otherwise.”

The knights’ expression didn’t change to excessive fear but some fear, satisfying Tywin for the meantime concerning the reputation of his house and its safety.

Entering a different chamber, Tywin watched as his son sat on the end of the bed and unknowingly reminding Tywin of what he had witnessed. He’d arrived when Cersei was removing the last of Jaime’s clothes before instructing her brother to take off her own. And what happened after that.

His eyes hardened when he remembered breaking away from his internal fight. The sight of his children’s hands touching one another in such ways that it made his stomach turn. They’d clearly done this before and not fumbling with inexperience in that chamber.

The scene had shattered his image of what House Lannister should be. What he’d seen was almost complete Targaryen, not Lannister.

Whispered rumours for years, Cersei’s tantrums; he’d refused to believe what they both meant or hinted at, but it wasn’t about belief now. It was past the point of being something he could ignore as false.

Still standing, Tywin focused on Jaime and took a step forward which unnerved his son. “You are not a Targaryen, yet you behaved like one,” he remarked which made Jaime swallow nervously. “When was the last time?” he asked, watching Jaime carefully. “I will know if you lie.”

Jaime nodded and swallowed. “Ninth Moon last year,” his son confessed, fear in his eyes but spoke again. “Since we were four.”

_Four?_

It felt as though he’d received a blow to the stomach. The rumours reached him shortly after his Joanna died; rumours he’s refused to believe and dismissed. They’d been seven then.

For Jaime and Cersei to interact in such a way since a young age made Tywin feel ill, but he didn’t let it show. Joanna had moved Jaime’s chamber to the other side of Casterly Rock when they were four. “Your mother knew, didn’t she? The reason she moved your chamber at Casterly Rock.”

The expression of his son was enough, but the boy answered. “Yes, Father,” he said, fiddling with the bedding. “A servant caught us and told Mother when we were four. She told us to never do it again.”

Furious that his children had ignored the words of their mother and his wife, Tywin narrowed his eyes at Jaime. “And yet you still did,” he pointed out tightly. “You ignored your mother’s instruction and continued to do so.” Taking another step, Tywin was meeting the eyes of his seated son. “In a sept no less.”

“I didn’t know it would happen,” Jaime denied, expression was desperate to be believed. “I didn’t come here for… _that_ …I returned home sennights ago and no one would tell me where my sister was. She was missing. I only came here to know she was alright,” his son said defending himself.

 _No one told him?_ That was an interesting development. A better question yet was why Lady Sansa would withhold the information from his son. The girl clearly knew from the start; he’d seen proof of it at Guest Right.

Tywin had a different question and one he could get the answer to now. “And you deduced Cersei presence here how?”

His son didn’t look away when he answered, which made it easier for Tywin to watch for lies. “All I knew was Cersei disappeared from Casterly Rock, and then I figured out your comment to Sansa at Guest right about prayer and septs,” Jaime explained plainly. “Why else would you have said what you did?”

Tywin didn’t speak immediately and watch as his son stirred where he was seated. Jaime hadn’t replied defiantly, but the answer he’d given Tywin was close to it. He brought Jaime to standing and the boy was meeting his eyes obediently. “You won’t return to this sept. You will never seek Cersei again. Am I clear?” he told his son sternly.

His heir was shocked by Tywin’s pronouncement but didn’t say anything.

“Am I clear?” he repeated in a clearer, stronger tone.

“Yes, Father,” Jaime replied, shock lingering in his voice. After a few seconds, Jaime straightened his back and had a determined air about him. “I won’t return here. I won’t look for my sister again.”

It seemed strange that his son had adjusted to his demand so quickly. He doubted it was genuine. “Give me your word, Jaime.” 

In the eyes of his son, there was some distant anger but something told Tywin it wasn’t towards him. “You have my word I won’t return to this sept, Father,” Jaime’s voice was strangely determined.

Satisfied, Tywin instructed his son. “Wait for me outside. Leave your goblet here.”

“Yes, Father.”

Taking the goblet, Tywin followed his son out of the chamber and watched as the boy walked pass Cersei’s chamber without a glance towards it. It struck him as peculiar that he’d witnessed intimacy between Jaime and Cersei one moment, but Jaime swearing never to return to her side the next. It left only questions of what Cersei had given his son if he was willing to effectively remove her from his life.

Leaving the matter of his son’s behaviour for investigating later, Tywin could hear the sound of Cersei’s fury through the door. The phrases she was shouting were muffled and for that Tywin was thankful. He didn’t want the sept, Lannisport or Westeros to know what just transpired.

Being forced to acknowledge the interactions between his son and daughter was enough of a disaster already. He didn’t want the rest of the continent to know.

There was only one solution concerning Cersei.

Walking directly to the office of the septon, Tywin wasted no time despite the impact of doing this would have on his house. The Great Houses would be curious about the absence of the daughter he’d long considered and spoken of as the best highborn girl another house could marry. That was no longer the reputation of his daughter.

Now it was stained with breaking Guest Right and, should anyone get wind of today, having an incestuous interest in her brother.

If such information reached any house it would make House Lannister look like a failure once again. Tywin’s efforts in ending the Reyne-Tarbeck revolt and debts towards House Lannister had brought pride back to his house, but his daughter’s actions were threatening to destroy everything. Courtly respect had vanished after the Guest right incident. His military reputation and wealth were of the few things of House Lannister that kept it from falling into decline again.

It was bitter medicine to swallow, but that was the truth of it.

He’d refused to believe the rumours about his children for years and now House Lannister was paying the price unless he remedied the situation now.

Cersei wasn’t the daughter he desired and fooled himself into believing he had for years, but now he couldn’t afford to lie to himself any further. She had become obsessed with her brother to the point that she’d put the house and all he’d done in jeopardy; some of it destroyed already.

_There’s no other option._

Reaching the office and opening the door after knocking, Tywin entered to find the septon had his hands clasped together and presumably Septa Felys both looking at him with surprise.

“Lord Tywin,” Septon addressed him sounding baffled by his presence. “I sent a raven to Casterly Rock moments ago, but mayhaps we should apprise you of the situation.”

There were only two reasons the septon would have sent a raven to Casterly Rock in such a timed manner. The first was a report on his daughter’s behaviour amongst the other girls in this sept, the other would be concerning what the knights had shown him this afternoon.

Remaining on his feet, Tywin approached the vacant side of the desk but didn’t take a seat. “It is my intention for my daughter to join the Silent Sisters,” he told them clearly, the pair of them looking surprised at his words and their expressions becoming ones of comprehension.

Septon nodded in understanding. “Very well, Lord Tywin,” he replied seriously and turned to Septa Felys. “See Lady Cersei to her new quarters, Septa Felys.”

“Aye, Septon,” the woman said, giving Tywin a curtsy before she left.

Septon, turned his attention back to Tywin. “This afternoon it was brought to my attention your daughter was seen kissing and undressing her brother within her chambers. A great offence to the Seven,” Septon told him. “Accommodating Lady Cersei at your request was not unreasonable, however, we can no longer continue to do so unless she, as you’ve requested, became a silent sister.”

Tywin was not a religious man, but he knew the sept had its limit for tolerance. “It appears we’re in agreement concerning what becomes of my daughter,” he remarked, maintaining his gaze with Septon. “Has the witness told others?”

“No,” Septon replied, rising from his seat. “This is a sensitive matter and Septa Felys understands the need for discretion despite the magnitude. She informed only me and has sworn secrecy before the gods. Yourself, Lord Tywin, was to be the only other person to be informed.”

A septa doesn’t lightly swear something before the gods and turn around to go back on her word, however, trust was not a commodity that Tywin could afford. Trust was what his father had given abundantly which led to the fall of House Lannister’s respect.

“And where were the rest of the septas at this hour?” Tywin persisted, determined to ensure that word of what transpired in the sept wouldn’t leave the sept; Kevan and Genna would be handling the raven at Casterly Rock.

Septon looked him in the eyes. “The septas and girls in training were and still are helping people in Lannisport, Lord Tywin,” he told Tywin in reassurance. “Septa Felys remained behind as required here at the sept. We always have one septa here in case they’re needed.”

Aside from the words of the Septon, realistically Tywin had no other means to ensure word did not reach unwanted ears. If there were people intent on spreading the story of what happened here, Tywin wouldn’t know who they were or where they are now.

It was probable that Cersei would be…acting madly…about her father committing her to the Silent Sisters, but her actions had given Tywin no choice. To continue permitting her disgraceful behaviour or the incestuous obsession towards Jaime that Tywin could no longer deny, would be political and societal suicide.

It was disappointing that these measures were necessary, but at least his son appeared to have outgrown the affliction that retained its grasp on Cersei.

He could no longer include her in his plans to ensure the Lannister name was respected and above reproach.

Tywin understood those who joined the Silent Sisters were required to swear the vows of silence and chastity and service to the Stranger. These were permanent commitments that, he knew, couldn’t be withdrawn from once sworn. It was a loss, but it was for the best.

He was effectively exiling her for the rest of her days, but each time he saw her it appeared matters only became worse. He logically had no choice but to take this path if it meant preserving House Lannister.

Moving onto the next matter to be discussed, Tywin placed Jaime’s goblet on the desk which resulted in a look of confusion from the Septon. “What substances do you keep in this sept, Septon? A least one such substance was obtained and used to lace this goblet.”

Septon gazed at the goblet before meeting his eyes. “I myself don’t have the names of them, my lord Lannister; however, our maester keeps a record in his chamber,” the man replied, rising to his feet and walking around the desk towards the door.

His actions gave Tywin the impression he was intending to take Tywin to the aforementioned chamber. Goblet in hand, he followed Septon through the halls until they reached an isolated chamber where a man in maester garb was putting a satchel down.

The maester looked up at their approach. “Septon, Lord Lannister,” he acknowledged, bowing to both of them. “Does Lady Cersei require a calming draught?”

Tywin spoke before the septon could, this was a matter he wanted answers to and Septon would only slow the process now that he had the maester before him. “No, Maester,” Tywin told him, despite her behaviour. Lifting the goblet, he passed it to the maester. “This goblet is laced and we need to know substances were used.”

The maester did as he was bid and proceeded to hold it near strong lighting for a few moments until there was a look of recognition. Looking between an open book and the goblet it appeared the maester was coming to a conclusion concerning what his son had consumed.

“Sweetsleep,” the maester identified. “A few grains by my reckoning. Enough to calm a man.”

Tywin pushed on. “And the effects of this dose on a child?”

The question surprised the man but he answered. “The mind temporarily losses clarity and thought process slows. Logic and reason are clouded and replaced by lack of concern,” the maester told him, putting the goblet down. “A commotion will return logic and reason to the user, but thought process requires half an hour to be restored after consumption.”   

Although the information meant nothing permanent had happened to his son, Tywin wouldn’t be satisfied with merely the knowledge of its effects. “How securely stored are your supplies, Maester? Someone came to be in possession of Sweetsleep and gave this goblet to my son; which he partially consumed.”

The maester glanced over to a pair of doors that featured no visible security and Tywin felt his anger rise. It truly was a show of foolishness if there was no lock to prevent or delay theft of such substances. Septon instructed an oath of silence about Tywin’s line of question while Tywin glared at the imbecile.

Giving Septon a brief, single nod once the oath was sworn, Tywin left the chamber and swiftly walked out of the sept without looking back; the knights guarding the former chamber of his daughter following him.

The guards outside the sept were not informed of the change concerning his daughter. They were still required there should she attempt an escape from her new circumstances. Tywin sought his son, eyes searching until movement from the corner of his eye made him look and saw Jaime rising from his seat in the shade to follow.

Not a word was exchanged between father and son during the return to Casterly Rock.

What he saw today had been something he’d hoped was merely falsehood that haunted the halls of Casterly Rock. He never wanted it to be true, so he refused to believe that it was true. However, seeing them together in such a way, and later hearing his son confessing to having done it for years, was too much to deny anymore.

The situation kept repeating itself in his mind. What he’d seen, heard and done in response to it.

Cersei was now a silent sister.

Jaime swore to never venture inside that sept again.

Tywin dismounted his horse swiftly upon reaching Casterly Rock and immediately left for the chamber where he knew Genna would most likely be.

 

GENNA LANNISTER

Inside a chamber that could easily be mistaken for a solar, Genna was watching on from where she was seated with a glass of wine in hand as her brother Kevan was standing beside the Lady Sansa. The girl was seated at a desk laden in organised parchment and writing notes about particular Westerland houses as Kevan explained the relations between rivalling houses.

Ever since the girl got here, Tywin had been determined to find a fault in Lady Sansa and Genna was silently enjoying herself watching it occur. Her eldest brother had given the girl all sorts of tasks as tests to see whether she truly was a capable lady, but with the intent of catching mistakes in her work.

So far there hadn’t been any such errors made by Lady Sansa aside from being a little slower than Tywin would have liked in a lady tending to the household. However, realistically Genna hadn’t expected Lady Sansa to have been as paced as she already was. From watching the girl, Genna would have an occasional glimpse where she was convinced the girl was downplaying her abilities.

Not that she told Tywin that.

It was too amusing to witness her unflappable brother struggling to find a significant flaw in Lady Sansa.

Genna never lets on about her amusement though.

To the left of Lady Sansa was a pile of sealed attendance letters for the tourney that had yet to be read. In front of that pile was another pile where the answers had been opened and taken into account within the seating plans Tywin had assigned Lady Sansa with creating.

In truth, Genna had already compiled the seating arrangements for the tourney and feast, merely without the information of who was coming. That small factor could be amended once Lady Sansa had completed seating the attending houses. The only flaw the girl had for this ‘test’ of Tywin’s was lacking knowledge about the Westerland houses.

Not that Genna expected any differently.

It appeared Lady Sansa’s knowledge about houses was limited to the Riverlands bannermen houses and the Great Houses of Westeros. Tywin may not have commented on it, but Genna knew her brother enough that she could tell it had made him less suspicious of Lady Sansa. The level of confidence the girl displayed when she arrived at Casterly Rock had made her appear as though there was nothing for Lady Sansa to be concerned about.

The past three sennights had revealed little nuances that chipped at her image of a flawless child. However, as a whole, the Lady Sansa was still an impressive girl; somewhat to Tywin’s displeasure.

Genna was aware why he was doing this. With House Lannister suffering the embarrassment created by Cersei, Tywin was attempting to be better than other houses regardless. The presence of Lady Sansa was not making that easy for him to achieve.

_Stop trying to tear the girl’s pride apart, Tywin. You’re merely making an arse of yourself._

_There is more than one way to unravel a mystery._

Getting to her feet, Genna walked over to the window and watched the coastline while there was the relative silence in the chamber. Kevan appeared beside Genna, making eye contact and spoke quietly. “She’s not afraid to admit when she doesn’t know something, and I only had to say it once.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t complained to her father, Kevan,” Genna remarked quietly, taking a sip of her wine. “Tywin’s been relentless trying to find major fault with her.”

Kevan sighed and shook his head from beside her; the only sound in the chamber was the scratching of Lady Sansa’s quill behind them. “There have been a few minor flaws, but nothing of note,” Kevan said.

The pair were standing together for a while and Genna was about to leave to attend to some matters when the silence in the chamber was interrupted by the girl’s voice. “Ser? My lady?” she addressed them, Genna and Kevan turning around at her words. “I believe this letter was meant for you.”

Genna, watching as Kevan took the letter, could see the tightness in Lady Sansa’s typically calm expression. The eyes were more expressive than she normally saw but the pained look of them quickly disappeared with a blink.

Her brother was soon by her side and showing her the content of it. The broken seal was the seven-pointed star.

None of it was good news.

 

SANSA STARK

Sansa felt so stupid for letting her hopes rise concerning Jaime.

Now they were crashing down into nothing like they should have been from the beginning.

And her efforts…it had been for nothing.

She was risking the lives of her family for nothing by carrying the Tully name.

If Lord Tywin asked the right people, of few there were, he would kill her family for the deception of her birth and a betrothal to his heir.

He would drown the Tullys in the Red Fork for it.

Her family.

Oberyn, Lord Whent, and the Tullys were the only ones who knew for certain she was merely a lookalike of Cat. Petyr was in the northern area of the Vale; Tywin Lannister wouldn’t know to look there.

_Does Father realise what has been put at risk?_

_Most likely, he rarely acts without thought._

_A Lannister secret and surrounded by Lannisters._

_The world has a horrid sense of humour._

_They will want silence concerning their heir’s incestuous activities; one way or another._

Who did she think she was to believe it possible to separate the Lannister twins? She’d been fooling herself about it for moons apparently.

Taking a letter from the unopened pile, Sansa continued working on the seating plan for the upcoming tourney. It would be pointless to write a letter to her father about the revelation today, it would never reach him. She’d refuse to say the vows in the sept if the secret was kept from her father or remained true by then. She was already betrothed to Jaime.

She was a threat to the Lannisters now; she held valuable information that could destroy what little courtly respect that remained for them.

But they would have to let her return to Riverrun for a visit eventually or risk her father becoming suspicious. Sansa would not act impulsively and trigger the fall of her family. Cat had acted rashly in Sansa’s memory and it had brought about so much tragedy for the Starks.

She would not do the same to the Tullys.

Sansa wouldn’t delude herself into thinking Ser Karyl could get her away from Casterly Rock against so many household knights. If Lord Tywin held her here, Ser Karyl would be as much a hostage as her.

_Porcelain_

_Ivory_

_Steel_

_Be the patient wolf._

GENNA LANNISTER

Genna was the only adult in the chamber aside from that knight, but she had the feeling that the child was unaware of the fact. Once the girl had handed over the letter, Genna had made short work of sending Kevan to the rookery to ensure that no letters had left Casterly Rock in the recent past. If letters were sent, it was best that they knew so they could act accordingly. Although what they could do in response was rather limited.

The matriarch of House Lannister had known that there’d always been a peculiar closeness between Jaime and Cersei, but she’d never imagined it went this deep.

Looking to Lady Sansa, it was evident to her that the girl understood what the contents of that letter meant. Her body wasn’t stiff but neither was it relaxed as it had been earlier.

The septon had no reason to lie, and for him to have written that the behaviour between Genna’s niece and nephew, with no resistance from either side, must have destroyed the trust the girl had for Jaime. It didn’t make sense why Jaime would have done it. Genna and Kevan knew there’d been a falling out between the twins.

_Why did he turn his attention back to Cersei? Does he honestly dislike being betrothed to Sansa?_

Kevan returned and shook his head, which gave Genna the chance to sigh in relief that the information hasn’t left the chamber.

She wasn’t a soft woman, but neither was she heartless. Lady Sansa knew the truth. Genna knew the truth. And neither of them were fools. Going over to the betrothed girl and telling her that everything would be alright would be uttering pointless lies to a future lady who was not a naïve idiot.

But from what could be seen in the child’s minute change in posture was telling enough after three sennights around her, and Genna had to make one thing very clear to her.

She approached the girl but it didn’t alter Lady Sansa’s body language. A stranger wouldn’t know Lady Sansa was fearful, but Genna who’d spent time in court could read it from the girl’s eyes.

Taking a seat beside the girl, Genna could see the only parchment on the desk regarding the seating arrangements for the tourney and feast. No letter intended for her father. “Lady Sansa, you didn’t try to conceal what you knew. I thank your honesty.”

Lady Sansa didn’t look away, eyes serious. “The letter implied an awaited time to meet. The sender would investigate the lack of one eventually and the blame would fall on me with heavy consequences.”

Genna couldn’t resist the quirk of her lips. “Smart girl,” she complimented before turning solemn. “This news creates problems for both of us. I doubt you desire to remain betrothed to a boy such as my nephew, but the reason why mustn’t leave Casterly Rock,” Genna predicted and pointed out. “There are very few options that cater to both of us, aren’t there?”

 

JAIME LANNISTER

He was walking alongside his father and could hear his aunt’s words coming from around the corner. Unsure that he was hearing the conversation correctly, Jaime looked to his father and it was clear that Father was unhappy with what Aunt Genna and Sansa were saying.

Jaime was still reeling from the fact that his sister had gone so far as to put something in his drink to make him do what she wanted. Whatever would happen to Cersei from here on didn’t make Jaime wonder one bit. As he’d sworn to his father, he would never return to the Lannisport sept or seek out Cersei. Going to the sept this afternoon to see that she was okay was a huge mistake and not one he would repeat.

“It appears Lady Sansa knows,” his father said factually.

He felt himself suck in a breath and his mind become erratic.

_How could one day go so wrong?!_

Sansa was his friend first and betrothed second. Jaime had never told her for fear of losing the only friend he has, and now he had lost her without even meaning to. He didn’t go to the sept to be close to Cersei; he was just being a brother and making sure she was okay, no matter how annoying she’d become.

_How could word have reached Sansa before Father and I got back? He told me the witness had sworn secrecy._

Remaining by Father’s side, Jaime looked to him. “She disgusted, isn’t she?” he asked in dread.

“Your aunt and Lady Sansa are labouring under the impression you were willing.”

“But I wasn’t,” he defended himself. “I didn’t know there was something in my drink.”

“I am not the one you need to convince, Jaime,” Father reminded him sternly. “They are; primarily Lady Sansa.”

Seeing a chance, Jaime took it. “It would be easier if it was just Sansa and me when I try.”

“Very well,” was the only thing his father said.

A few minutes later and alone with Sansa in that chamber, the door closed, Jaime was faced with Sansa using that calm look she always used around anyone but him.

That really hurt.

“Sansa, please don’t hide from me,” he begged, watching her and praying she would give him a chance. “I can explain. Please!”

Sansa didn’t react immediately and maintained her expression. “Explain?” she repeated to him in disbelief. “What part, Jaime? That I was entertainment until you could see Cersei again? That you got bored of your betrothed and returned to your lover? Something else?”

“I was drugged!”

She blinked at his words, but her eyes grew hard. “You expect me to believe that? Men have blamed wine for their violence or infidelity to their wives. I’m not your wife but betrothed is close to it.” Sansa got to her feet and began to pace. “I was stupid to trust you!”

“It-it,” he was scrambling for the name Father told him. “Sweetsleep,” he crowed when he remembered. “The maester said it was Sweetsleep.” The information seemed to make Sansa curious and still, so he continued. “He said my goblet was laced with Sweetsleep.”

Sansa flexed her hands and took a breath. “That’s a poison.”

“I know, but it’s what he said.”

“How much?”

That was an unusual question, but if it meant Sansa was listening then he would tell her. “A few grains the maester guessed.”

She walked over to a seat and kept looking at him, eyes warmer than before. “And how would Cersei have gotten her hands on Sweetsleep in a sept?”

“The maester,” he told her. “The Lannisport Sept has a maester there for the sick. Father said there was no lock on the cupboard.”

Sansa’s eyes were hard again. “Convenient.”

“It’s true!”

“I want you to show me tomorrow, Jaime.”

“I can’t.”

That angered her and she huffed. “Why not? You have an answer but refuse to prove it.”

Jaime went over to her and knelt where she was sitting. “I swore I would never go there again. I gave my word, Sansa.”

She looked at him strangely but the look was gone, quickly replaced by that calm look. “To who?”

“Father.”

Sansa sighed and meet his eyes. “He saw you together, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Jaime told her. “I didn’t want to be with her like that, Sansa,” he said. “One minute I was walking in the sept and the next I couldn’t think straight.”

She looked away and got to her feet. “I know the truth when I see it, Jaime,” she told him in a serious tone, meeting his eyes again. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said leaving for the chamber door.

“Sansa!” he called out before she reached the door. “I’m sorry.”

“You were drugged. It was beyond your control,” she replied, grabbing the handle of the door.

He got up and came over. “That too, but that’s not what I meant.”

She looked at him. “What did you mean?”

“That you found out about me and Cersei this way.”

Looking a little hesitant, she was going to say something but decided not to.

“I was afraid to tell you.”

Sansa glanced his way. “It’s understandable why you would be.”

And she left.

Watching the door close, Jaime paced inside the chamber and wondered why Sansa hadn’t asked about his past with Cersei. She seemed more interested in proof that he was telling her the truth. It was strange; he was glad she didn’t ask because it would be uncomfortable to answer, but he couldn't help but wonder.

He left for his chambers soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tywin in denial. Super hard since he's always on equal or advantageous footing. Hope you liked it.


	21. Tywin's Solar

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 24, 2 nd Moon, 276 AC_

It was the early hours of the morning and in his solar at his desk sat Tywin, silently checking the Great House letters that confirmed or denied whether a house would attend the tourney. Logically, any house that had not corresponded with House Lannisport prior to today weren’t attending; travel took time.

His bannermen had not tarried when he sent out the notice of the betrothal feast for his son and Lady Sansa; so they were already here and currently accommodated in Lannisport for the tourney in advance. Those remaining to arrive were only a few Great Houses and bannermen of other kingdoms.

At least one member from every Great House would be present for the tourney to honour Viserys’ nameday, according to the complete seating arrangement plans that dominated his desk.

The fact the Martells were first present had been a surprise, but he gave it little further thought. The Tyrells were due to arrive within days, and so were the Arryns with Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark in tow. The Tullys were sending Blackfish while Hoster Tully remained in Riverrun with two daughters and infant sons.

King Aerys would be coming with only his seventeen year old son, Rhaegar, who intended to compete in his third tourney and intended to win, Aerys had written. The thought left a bitter thought in Tywin’s mind, but Cersei had destroyed any chances of a royal marriage between Lannister and Targaryen. The name of the royal house triggered a flashback that haunted him all last night since yesterday.

Moving on, Tywin read the final opened letter; the Baratheons. He’d befriended Steffon as a boy; Steffon had been a page, and himself a royal cupbearer, in King’s Landing. When the War of the Ninepenny Kings broke out both of them fought; and where Steffon’s father had fallen. Since Steffon became Lord Paramount of the Stormlands they’d maintained contact via raven while they saw to their duties.

Rising from his seat and throwing the letters into the fire, a knock on the door drew his attention and he granted entry. Looking into the hearth he watched as the letters curled and burned into ashes. The presence of Brynden Tully would be a problem and create an opportunity for Lady Sansa to express a probable desire to break the betrothal.

_Originally, I never imagined a Tully would desire to._

A betrothal he couldn’t afford to be broken after yesterday’s events.

At dinner last night, Lady Sansa hadn’t given the slightest impression there was anything wrong and Tywin was forced to give secret credit where it was due; despite his determination to find a weakness. Jaime, on the other hand, was as legible as a book that the discussion with Lady Sansa hadn’t been entirely successful.

According to Genna, the girl had made no single attempt to notify her father of what happened, despite knowing the full extent of his children’s behaviour. Apparently, the girl wasn’t a fool lacking a brain. Genna had further explained last night that Lady Sansa appeared to fear for her family more than for herself.

_Tully through and through._

Typically, Tywin concentrated on matters of the Westerlands and the Seven Kingdoms as Warden and Hand. However, Casterly Rock direly required his attention.

It appeared that anything he did not manage could and did go awry. First his daughter, who destroyed his chance of a royal marriage and damaged the Lannister name; and secondly, although involuntarily, his son was caught acting unfaithfully by his betrothed.

Cersei was now confined to the depths of the Lannisport sept as a silent sister. Her absence at the tourney will be noticed, but there was little else he could do but fabricate a lie when the event took place. Illness mayhaps.

Jaime was sworn never to visit the Lannisport sept again, and Tywin knew that his son was determined to become a knight of glory and honour. With such an emotional investment towards knighthood, his son wouldn’t break his word to him.

“Father.”

Turning to face his son, Tywin watched as the boy shifted on his feet while standing near the desk. Jaime was not a lost cause, but the betrothal to the Tully girl needed to be resolved before Blackfish arrived. The man would want to visit his niece and denying the man would be suspicious; Brynden _was_ a Tully.

“Jaime,” he acknowledged from where he stood by the hearth. “You’ve come to discuss Lady Sansa,” Tywin presumed.

His son nodded with regret written on his face. “Yes, Father. Aunt Genna said I should talk to you instead of her.”

Tywin didn’t know why his sister directed Jaime to speak with him since he rarely involved himself in such matters. However, considering the result of leaving Cersei and Jaime to the care of servants when Genna wasn’t visiting, Tywin made an exception. “You will need to be specific. What about?” he asked, watching his son fidget nervously.

“I…I talked to Sansa like you said and she said she believes I was drugged,” Jaime started with traces of nerves still in his voice. He was looking at Tywin as though waiting for something.

Tywin didn’t know what his son wanted. Despite the titles and his duties, he had no practise with children. “What do you need? Your betrothed believes you,” he pointed out, trying to grasp how to handle this. He had an easier time with idiots in King’s Landing.

Jaime sighed in defeat. “I don’t know what to do,” his son admitted, eyes searching for something from Tywin. “Sansa- she- I-.” It was difficult not to interrupt his stammering son, but this betrothal needed to remain one, so he endured. “Sansa is still polite and everything. Like a lady. She will talk if I talk to her, but she never starts the talking.”

Tywin wasn’t surprised by the reaction to this situation. Jaime looked as though he was about to say something but stopped, eyes watching him and waiting. Instead of speaking, Tywin retrieved his water goblet and briefly drank as he sat down, but not speaking a word. Tywin understood that Lady Sansa was pulling away from his son.

After a moment of silence and confusion on his son’s part, Jaime mustered himself to continue. “She was my friend before we were betrothed; now Sansa hardly talks to me. Aunt Genna said you would better understand Sansa than her.”

Tywin nearly choked on his water.

_Genna compared a child to me? Preposterous._

Once Tywin swallowed, Jaime resumed his longwinded talk. “Father, what do I do? She knows it’s not my fault but-“

He couldn’t tolerate the babble any longer and put the goblet down, rising to his feet and walking to the window. “ _If_ your aunt is right, gifts and words won’t appease Lady Sansa. _If_ your aunt is right, your betrothed’s pride is wounded but she’s controlling herself.” He was going to give Genna grief for this. “ _If_ your aunt is right, Lady Sansa feels betrayed and you must prove yourself through actions.”

Returning to his seat, Tywin said one last thing. “ _If_ your aunt is right, trust won’t return easily.”

Jaime looked dejected and hopeless. “So there’s nothing I can do?”

“Tell me, Jaime,” he replied, seeing the way his son was listening to every word. “Were you willing?”

His son held an expression of disbelief. “I wasn’t. You know I wasn’t!” he replied in defence. Tywin narrowed his eyes and his son straightened in his seat. “I wasn’t, Father,” he replied more calmly.

“Lady Sansa is aware you weren’t, or so you’ve told me, and that is your chance for redemption,” he told his son, which appeared to give the boy hope. “Trust takes time, Jaime. Words are wind, actions are not. Act as a betrothed should and eventually trust will be restored,” Tywin advised, taking a drink and tilting his head towards the door. “Tell your aunt I want to talk to her, and after that ask a servant to inform Lady Sansa the same.”

Jaime got out of his seat and took the hint, but paused at the door. “Thank you, Father.”

Giving a single nod, Tywin watched his son leave and proceeded to write a letter to assign two new knights as the men in charge of protecting his son. Sending that letter to Maester Gawen, Tywin began looking through the seating arrangements Genna sent to him last night. 

_Reliable as always._

“To your satisfaction, Tywin?” Genna remarked from the doorway knowingly as she entered the room. He mayhaps not smile, but there were tells of when he was pleased. Genna refused to list them though.

Hearing her sit down, Tywin replied without looking up. “Indeed. Your plans for the betrothal feast worked well and these are of no lesser detail,” he noted.

“Good,” his sister replied, which made him look up. “Those there are entirely Lady Sansa’s efforts. The only help was Kevan informing her of house rivalry.” The smug tone from Genna annoyed Tywin. He mayhaps made the error of assuming this was Genna’s work, but she didn’t have to add salt to the wound.

Tywin pushed his emotions to the side and focused on the reason he wanted her here. “Genna, when my son approached you for advice concerning Lady Sansa you sent him to me. Why?”

His sister was unbothered by his questioning. “To me, it was obvious, Tywin,” she said, relaxing in her seat. “You’ve spent so much time as Hand of the King that your children hardly know you. Look how Cersei turned out. You need to be a father to your sons in more than blood, brother,” Genna explained, eyes meeting his as she said it.

A number of problems came to mind when she said that. Being Hand of the King was part of the reason House Lannister had gained respect until recently and he needs to continue that role to maintain what was left of it. There was no chance in the Seven Hells Tywin was taking Tyrion to King’s Landing so Aerys could further mock him with the deformed thing.

Genna continued without pause despite his thoughts. “You’ve done much for our house and restored it. At least take Jaime to King’s Landing when you leave and arrange with the Tullys for Tyrion to be with Edmure. Kevan explained to me the heir got on well with him; possibly fostering there when he’s old enough.”

The suggestion of sending his questionable son to Riverrun during his moons at King’s Landing, and later fostering there held an appeal and solution. Taking Jaime to King’s Landing would be a non-issue and the boy could squire there next year.

“Plausible solution,” he said. Moving on, Tywin brought up Jaime’s comment and maintained eye contact. “You told my son I would better understand Lady Sansa than you,” he said to her. “What possibly made you conceive such an idea?”

Genna didn’t look away or deny having said it. “You’re more alike than you know, Tywin,” she commented confidently. “You’re both sharp-witted and don’t mind silence; can hold a courtly conversation when necessary and win; conceal your emotions most of the time; capture hidden messages, and don’t fall to pressure.”

Her remark was irritating but he refused to believe that a mere child could hold her own against seasoned members of the court. As a guest, the girl was well versed in careful speech and exercised etiquette on a daily basis, but he couldn’t imagine her doing well once surrounded by multiple players of the Game.

“And Tywin?” Genna said, drawing his attention back. “I don’t believe the girl would be foolish enough to spread gossip about Jaime and Cersei; even to family. Be nice if you can.”

Being nice was not an attribute that had gotten Tywin to the position he had a few moons ago. Everything was going well, he was Hand of the King, respected, and Cersei was being considered for betrothal to the future king. His father had been overly nice to his vassal lords, which only resulted in unpaid loans and disrespect towards House Lannister.

“I know that look,” Genna remarked wrily. “Brother, that girl is going to be your gooddaughter one day. Not once did she hint at breaking the betrothal; merely listened to what I had to say and replied neutrally. So unless you intend to break the betrothal for Jaime yourself, be careful how you handle this. She’s a child,” his sister warned him.

There was a knock at the door before he had the opportunity to reply.

Genna rose from her seat and opened the door, revealing a servant and the very girl they’d been discussing. “Come in, Lady Sansa. I was just about to leave.” Glancing back at Tywin, his sister stepped aside to let Lady Sansa in before walking out into the hall and closing the door behind her.

Tywin didn’t rise from his seat and merely met the girl’s Tully eyes, a word not utter between the two people looking at one another. He’d been caught off guard and had no excuse of looking busy to keep her waiting; a strategy he used in King’s Landing that took the other person out of a confident state and conveyed things would be done on his time.

Lady Sansa didn’t tarry or hastily take the other seat. Instead, she seated herself calmly and showed no fidgeting as she continued to meet his gaze. A moment later she broke the silence. “House Tully will not breath or write a word of yesterday’s revelation despite this discussion’s outcome,” she told him not breaking the gaze. “Even amongst itself.”

_Words are wind, but the girl appears genuine…for now._

Tywin couldn’t afford for Lady Sansa to utter a word of what she’d deduced from the septon’s letter. To trust her with this secret was a risk. However, to all but hold her hostage in Casterly Rock would bring suspicion to House Lannister. And neither would that work for long; Blackfish was due to arrive in a matter of days for the tourney.

Blackfish was a blunt and stubborn man, who wouldn’t care how much of a commotion he made if he was to discover his niece being held here against her will. Refusing the man to see Lady Sansa would only create persistence and eventually further problems.

The same problems would arise if she was to disappear. The daughter of a Great House didn’t vanish without an explanation. Cersei was a reminder of that; the Seven Kingdom would talk if he didn’t conceal her true location with a falsehood soon. He could dispose of knights easily, but not a Great House daughter not his own.

Ideally, Tywin wanted the girl to marry his son, despite the frustration her aptitude was giving Tywin. If she became a Lannister, spreading the word about Jaime and Cersei would not only harm House Lannister but also humiliate House Tully for marrying her into his family. There’d be consequences for the Tullys in that scenario.

However, she was too young to marry his son. Their betrothal was already timed prematurely and he doubted the girl had flowered yet at merely ten.

He couldn’t blindly trust her with his house’s reputation at stake.

He couldn’t have her killed or poisoned to silence her.

He couldn’t hold her here from family until marrying age.

_Family…Tully._

According to Genna, Lady Sansa appeared to value her family above herself.

When the idea came to mind, Tywin noticed she was looking attentively while his mind was working quickly.

“Lady Sansa, you are no fool. Trusting words alone is the act of a fool.”

“Yes, Lord Tywin and a house builds no worthy reputation based on foolish decisions.”

Tywin watched her carefully. “Outside the Lannisport sept, you are the only person not a Lannister aware of what transpired. The septa and septon have sworn silence before the gods.”

He saw her nod at his words with no sudden spike of fear. This indicated she hadn’t spoken a word to anyone. “Oaths that won’t be broken,” she commented. “The oath of a child means little to you,” she accurately stated. “Any house would want significant reassurance for something such as this.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow briefly. This was no clueless girl.

_Demanding silence from the girl in exchange that I do her family no harm would be counterproductive. I am dealing with a child, albeit mature, but a child nonetheless._

_To threaten the Tully family would only drive her towards telling her uncle at the first opportunity. I am not speaking to the lord of another house, but the child daughter of one._

“Correct, Sansa Tully.” He rose to his feet and walked to the corner of his desk where he would be standing over her. “Keep this knowledge to yourself, and you will have nothing to fear,” he warned her sternly.

That was as close to threatening her family as he could get away with. She couldn’t claim he had threatened the Tullys with those mere words. He hadn’t said it, but the warning of consequences if she said anything would work in his favour. His role in ending the Revolt could fill in the gaps since she appeared to be knowledgeable of Westerland history; specifically House Lannister.

There were minute traces of fear, but they were only to be expected. “No Tully will hear of this,” she promised him. From that reply alone, he knew what conclusion she had come to; and it was the right one. She had much to lose if she wronged his house. Tywin didn’t nod. Words were wind.

On Lady Sansa’s face, there was a mild hint of thought before she spoke again. “Your heir mayhaps be sworn from returning to the sept. Yet, should Lady Cersei leave the sept in search of her brother someone else could discover the truth on their own,” Lady Sansa pointed out. “How will I not be held accountable should that happen?”

Although she was walking a fine line, Lady Sansa had a valid point; one he’d already tended to. “She will soon serve the Stranger.” The girl took a few seconds to realise what he meant, however, he saw a reflex of doubt flicker across her face. She wasn’t the only one to doubt whether it would work. Tywin had his own concerns whether his daughter would cooperate with the Silent Sisters.

_Not likely._

He recalled the way she had acted at Casterly Rock prior to being sent into the care of the Lannisport sept. The regular news he received from the sept’s septon echoed similar behaviour of doing what it took for Cersei to get what she wanted. Tywin had also seen how determined his daughter was to be intimate with Jaime. However, he was confident his son wouldn’t fall for the same deceptive measures twice.

_Jaime will ensure there won’t be a reoccurrence of yesterday._

The Lady Sansa was an unusually sharp girl and he felt a reminder wouldn’t go amiss. “You will not utter a word of what you know.”

Her eyes never left him when she spoke. “Yes, my lord. I swear so to the gods. Of what worth that vow means to you,” Sansa Tully avowed to him solemnly.

Watching the girl, Tywin didn’t speak further for several minutes as he studied the Lady Sansa on the other side of his desk.

She was not a cowed thing and shaking in her seat like other girls her age would be had they held the same intellect. Aye, Tywin had to admit the girl was intelligent. It was clear to him she was cautious and aware of her position at the current time. He’d expected her to mention a desire to break the betrothal, yet she hadn’t.

It was true that yesterday afternoon he’d overheard Genna leading a conversation about the girl withdrawing from being betrothed to his son. However, none of Lady Sansa’s words had alluded to agreeing to the matter. She’d spoken neutrally and merely discussing fact and possibilities with no evident preference.

_She’s a mystery._

He wanted to know what her intentions were. One would create trouble, while the other avenue would avoid trouble. He knew what choice he wanted.

_But what does she want?_

Based on her previous behaviour in his presence at Casterly Rock, Tywin believed she was of a mind that saw beyond the immediate future or self-satisfaction.

Yet what did she want? It would influence her choices.

 

SANSA STARK

Sansa knew how conversations such as these worked.

Whatever she told him, Lord Tywin would adjust his plans accordingly so the results would favour him; she’d seen it in Littlefinger, Cersei, Olenna, and countless members of the court. These people always acted in ways to get what they wanted or benefit themselves.

She needed to act in the interests of what the players of the Game wanted if she and her family were to survive. Sansa had no advantage or power right now; her knowledge was useless and to say something along the lines of already knowing about the twins’ relationship since Riverrun would only endanger her family.

Lord Tywin’s want was more than obvious to Sansa. He wanted the risk towards House Lannister’s reputation, her, close and under his eye; to deter her from spreading the word. Yet on his desk was the work she’d given to Genna yesterday. Her uncle was coming soon and he knew it, just as she did. 

_He will watch my every move during the tourney and following moons. I’m not deluded enough to consider telling Uncle Brynden, or any other member of my family for that matter._

The lesser versed player would keep her away from her friends and family. However, with his subtle warning of her family hanging over her head, a player like Lord Tywin would exploit the power he had over her to see whether her words of silence were more than wind. Even silence concerning her family.

_I need to think of the person he is now to predict what he will do. The Tywin Lannister I knew before had undergone situations this one hasn’t experienced yet, and others he didn’t experience last time. My assumptions will be inaccurate if I make them based on the orchestrator of Cat’s and Robb’s deaths._

The Reyne-Tarbeck Revolt was a starting point. His reaction to House Lannister being boldly defied and its reputation at risk demonstrated that he didn’t take threats to that reputation lightly.

That was his motive; House Lannister’s reputation.

And she was a danger to that reputation. This logically ruled he would go through with his veiled threat if there was so much as a whisper amongst the people concerning Jaime and Cersei. The warning hadn’t been something Sansa anticipated before forcing herself to think of who he was now.

She’d expected an outright ruthless action like the Tywin Lannister of memory; she’d hardly interacted with the man but she knew about his machinations.  Mayhaps his threat was Tywin being cautious yet exercising the power he did have.

_It would be in the best interests of my family for me to appease his concerns by aligning my actions with his desires._

_He’ll want me here where he can see me._

With Cersei becoming a silent sister, if that was even possible, it was clear Tywin for all intents and purposes was disposing of his daughter; deeming her beyond the point of return. Consequently, all attention would turn to making sure the future of his house would be prosperous and strong; reputation included.

This included his son becoming an overlord who was nothing like Tytos Lannister, the man that had let vassal lords mock him and leave debts to House Lannister unpaid.

Sansa highly doubted Tyrion was even factored into Lord Tywin’s equation for House Lannister’s future success.

For the sake of her family, she would not attempt to withdraw from her betrothal to Jaime by asking her uncle to deliver a message to Father on her behalf. Not changing her current position as Jaime’s betrothed would eventually ease the Warden of the West when word failed to spread about the twins.

Lord Tywin was watching her analytically and broke the silence. “Lady Sansa,” he addressed, figuring imposing as always. “Your betrothal was agreed upon by myself and your father. And breaking it would require myself and your father,” he started ominously. “However, to my knowledge, you’ve expressed no intention of breaking the betrothal with assistance from your uncle,” he told her with an air of confidence. “Given the circumstances, that is a peculiar choice for a girl.”

Sansa could see he was trying to get to a point of telling her she had no choice as a show of power, but she answered in a way that would blunt it. “Lord Jaime has tells when he lies, and there were none when he claimed Sweetsleep was involved in yesterday’s…activities,” she told Tywin clearly.

Sansa had never intended for herself to develop some feelings towards Jaime, and despite her knowledge of Sweetsleep, what had occurred with Cersei stung Sansa nonetheless.

Sansa didn’t end her answer and continued. “Where freewill was taken away, to break a betrothal afterwards is unreasonable,” she explained, maintaining eye contact. “The use of a laced goblet means your heir didn’t reciprocate Lady Cersei’s advances without influence. He may have willingly welcomed them in the past; however, using a laced goblet speaks differently.”

Lord Tywin continued to watch her for a few minutes, his posture losing tension slightly at her words, and took a drink of water. “Well-reasoned,” he remarked before rising from his seat, goblet in hand. “Thank you, Lady Sansa,” he dismissed with a curt nod and going to the window. “I recall you ride every morning,” he said seriously without turning around.

The tone in his voice conveyed his reminder well enough, but the comment confused her. It was not something she would expect from the Lion of Lannister; it was almost a peace offering considering his reputation.

“Yes, my lord. With both knights in company,” she replied, leaving the solar and feeling the tension drop away once she was out in the halls and making for the stables. She hoped the mention of the knights would appease him a little; one of them was Ser Gerion Lannister himself and would no doubt report back to Lord Tywin.

Sansa wasn’t sure whether going through with the betrothal would make any difference to the future she knew as she had originally hoped. However, it didn’t matter whether it will or not, her family was at stake. The man in that solar as good as threatened their safety without so much as directly saying so. Had she been younger in mind she would have missed it for what it was.

This conversation with the Warden of the West was making Sansa have to reevaluate her perception of the Lannisters she knew from before.

Lord Tywin, while still a man with power and ruthlessness, did not have the backing of the Crown and had yet to be hardened further by the war of Robert’s Rebellion. His reputation as a harsh overlord was still present as a result from the Reyne and Tarbeck revolt which he swiftly ended. He was the power of House Lannister, but it did not extend beyond that although his former respect had.

Strangely, he’d been more diplomatic than demanding as she expected; there’d still been demand present though.

Jaime was a far different person from the one she’d known briefly before perishing against the Night King. Back then, he’d been a man who’d grown to know what Cersei truly was. Right now, he is a child who was still in his formative years and determined to become a true knight.

That morning in Riverside with little Willem had shown too much emotion to be a farce. Not the embittered kingslayer who was punished for saving the lives of King’s Landing enormous population.

Cersei, on the other hand, was not very different from the Cersei she’d spent much time imprisoned by. The only difference was her age and command she possessed. From afar, Sansa had heard the word of Cersei becoming progressively insane. This time, it appeared she was witnessing it for herself first hand and at a far earlier age.

Aside from the survival of her twin brothers, and Prince Oberyn travelling with her, it appeared that the only other major effect her presence in this era had was premature damage to the reputation of House Lannister through Cersei’s actions. Jaime’s interactions with Sansa made Cersei angry and aggressive to the point of embarrassment.

She missed Oswell and Joseth and wanted to see them again before their first namedays. It was without a doubt that Sansa would be in Casterly Rock for some time considering everything. To return to Riverrun too soon would be a risky decision of making Lord Tywin suspicious; different man or not.

Since arriving here, there had been little sight of Oberyn near Casterly Rock, but Sansa felt that it was related to the slights Lord Tywin had made towards the Martells a few years ago. It made sense that the two men maintained a distance for the most part. Oberyn was all laughter and support around her, but any mention of Lord Tywin changed his mood to something of resentment. After hearing the story, Sansa couldn’t blame him.

While walking the halls, Sansa was joined by Ser Karyl and Ser Gerion who’d been waiting for her return from Lord Tywin’s solar.

Ser Gerion ‘Gery’ Lannister reminded her much of Tyrion from the past, albeit happier than Tyrion. The man was fond of japes, easily amused and had an aptitude of making others laugh. At the moment he was having a war of wills with Sansa concerning formalities. Like Tyrion during that sham marriage in King’s Landing, Gerion was insistent on her calling him by name and not Ser when no others were present.

He was wearing her down slowly. Not that she’d ever tell him or she would never hear the end of it.

The difference at meals was astounding, but she had to admit that it was relieving to have a Lannister man other than Jaime around who was cordial with her.

She didn’t let her guard drop too much around him though. Sansa didn’t know one wit about the man.

Ser Gerion was the most pleasant of the brothers from what she could tell.

Once all three were mounted, Sansa led her knights out of The Lion’s Mouth of Casterly Rock and towards a trail that would end at the coast.

Unexpectedly, but not surprising to Sansa, Ser Gerion spoke. “Something about you has changed him, Sansa, and for the better,” he remarked with an easy smile. She didn’t let his use of only her name bother her. “Jaime will ride with us again. You’ll see.”

 Sansa looked over to Lord Tywin’s youngest brother before turning her eyes to the sea. “Horseback and his favourite uncle, why wouldn’t he?” she deflected.

“And you, sweet girl.”

“Time will tell, Ser Gerion,” Sansa replied, gazing out to the Sunset Sea.

“I know my nephew, Sansa,” Ser Gerion commented before making a mock irritated huff. “And how many times do I have to say it’s ‘Gery’?”

Sansa coughed to conceal a chuckle and she knew he would be smirking behind her. “Until the end of my days, Ser Knight.”

The Lannister knight snorted behind her. “Stubborn thing.”

“I like to call it strong will.”

He laughed contagiously, and she had to admit it was difficult to smother her own.


	22. Martells Meet Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait a few days to post this one.

ELIA MARTELL

_Day 25, 2 nd Moon, 276 AC_

Walking along the harbour, a dark slender woman, evidently Salty Dornish, looked up towards the masts of the ships until she spotted the colours of her house; the hot-coloured sigil of House Martell.

From the harbour of Lannisport, Elia could easily see the outline of Casterly Rock less than a mile beyond the city.

The last time she had seen the Rock had been three years ago.

She had not expected to see it again so soon after Tywin Lannister’s rejection of her to his heir, Jaime, and Obeyrn to his daughter, Cersei.

Yet here she was, back in the Westerlands and nearly on the doorstep of Tywin Lannister.

Her memory of Casterly Rock had remained quite clear. It was not easily forgotten.

It was a boastful height of three times greater than the Wall. From east to west it was two leagues long with tunnels, dungeons, storerooms, barracks, halls, stables, a sept, a godswood including a small weirwood in the Stone Gardens, stairways, courtyards, balconies, and gardens; it had a port of its own, wide enough for longships. The main entry into Casterly Rock was a naturally formed cavern of two hundred feet high and wide enough for twenty riders.

After the rejection and onboard home, Oberyn had remarked that Lord Tywin’s large ego was higher than Casterly Rock.

_To imagine you without a sharp tongue, Oberyn, is to not imagine you at all. But trouble shall find you with it._

Beside her was a woman and companion from Starfall with great reputable beauty that infatuated many; hair of a raven, eyes of a haunting violet.

Sixteen year old Ashara Dayne.

Elia held no resentment or jealousy towards Ashara. Although a Princess of Dorne, Elia was not the beauty Ashara was; many women of greater beauty than Elia lived in Dorne, but what was beauty if you have no wit?

_Doran was furious when I was said to be ‘a kitchen drab’. It shouldn’t have been uttered, despite how true._

Ashara had both beauty and wit in generous amounts. While Elia lacked beauty but had gentle wit.

Regardless, they were friends and had spent at least a moon in Starfall together with the Daynes as her hosts.

The story of Oberyn’s whereabouts had raised an interest in Elia. He’d resided in Riverrun for over a moon; something she could never have predicted. Her brother was a restless man that rarely remained in one place for long; The Citadel was the only exception.

_How could a child manage to keep Oberyn interested in their home?_

Elia would have to find the answer from the source; her youngest brother. He was the only one who could give it to her.

Her attention was towards the markets of the busy harbour of Lannisport when Ashara called her name. “Elia, I- I think that’s Oberyn.”

The mention of her younger brother’s name drew her attention to the gathered riders a distance away. Watching for a few minutes, it became clear what they were doing.

Jousting.

Spotting Oberyn was a simple task, for he was the only one with the skin of a Salty Dornishman.

Being Salty Dornish made it quite easy.

Believing what she was seeing, on the other hand, was not.

Oberyn’s horsemanship had always leaned towards flare instead of stability. The last time she’d seen him was three years ago before he was exiled to Lys.

_Mayhaps he’s simply improved with time._

The knights were practising against one another in preparation of the tourney to be held on the first sennight of next moon. Given the occasion for the tourney, she imagined there was a large reward for being champion in each category.

Elia made for the area she had seen the knights training. Having failed to find Oberyn after sailing in yesterday, Elia was eager to see him again and Ashara beside her seemed to look forward to bantering against Oberyn again. Both of them had quite the set of wits.

Most of the knights were Westermen, Reach, and Rivermen. Among the cluster were some from the Stormlands and Crownloads; a scarce number from the North and Dorne; if she was looking at the sigils properly.

She saw the black sand steed with its fire-red tail and mane be led to the rail it would charge along and Elia waited with bated breath. Oberyn was a capable fighter, but the partisan was his strength; not the lance.

He was to ride against a Westerman, one of the largest men she’s ever seen, but her brother didn’t look fazed by the man’s bulk.

They charged.

He struck.

The other rider fell to the dirt.

_Gods, Oberyn._

Grinning, he looked up and spotted her. “Elia!” he cried in joy, urging the horse towards them. Dropping the broken lance, Oberyn slowed and leapt off the horse with his signature flare. “It’s been too long.”

“Indeed it has,” she agreed, embracing him and wiping the dirt off his face. “Three years.” Elia used a handkerchief for her hands and peered up at him. “So…Riverrun for a moon? It must be quite a story if it kept you from home.”

He laughed and took the reins of his horse, leading them away from the other knights. “It is; so entertaining for a peaceful place. Sansa and Jaime never failed to amuse me.” Elia wondered what he meant by that; his voice had had a mischievous lilt when he told them.

_Who are these people he mentioned?_

This had Elia intrigued and thinking. Ashara tilted her head to the side and looked at Oberyn before she spoke. “Sansa? I’ve heard that name but…”

Elia wasn’t sure where either. There was a vague memory of it. Oberyn smirked at them both. “She’s ten for not much longer.”

Ashara’s head shot up to meet his eyes. “Tully of Ten!” she crowed the song’s name in victory. “Sansa Tully.” Elia had only heard the song twice before she continued her voyage for Lannisport. The minstrel with the song arrived at Starfall from the Reach only days prior to Ashara sailing with Elia for the tourney. “Is she as beautiful as they say?”

“Aye,” her younger brother confirmed with a smile. “She is a nice girl, she even made something for you, Elia; but steal Lady Sansa’s horse and you will come to regret it.”

Elia blinked and looked to Oberyn. He was positively grinning. There had to be more to what he was saying. “What happened, brother? I pray it wasn’t you.”

Following Oberyn back towards the heart of Lannisport, Elia could see the high-quality goldwork the city was famed for, and visible at the far end of the harbour was the anchored Lannister fleet that would fight against the Ironborn next time they raided the harbour city.

“Not I,” he denied, relieving Elia from believing he wronged a Great House. “Lyanna Stark was the culprit. The Starks were guests at Riverrun and Catelyn Tully was betrothed to the Stark heir there.” He passed his horse to a stable boy and continued the story as they went into a pleasant establishment. “Sansa’s horse was a gift from her late mother; Minisa Tully’s own horse; well-bred too. Sansa rode it with Jaime every morning. One morning, Lyanna Stark decided she was riding and took the horse.”

Ashara sat down at the table where Oberyn’s servant was delivering food. Elia’s friend was annoyed he’d stopped there. “And? Revenge. It was revenge, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and revenge Lyanna Stark never saw coming,” Oberyn continued, enjoying Ashara’s irritation that he was dragging it out. He took a deliberately slow sip that had Elia silently laughing at the sight. “There are two drawbridges into Riverrun. Lady Sansa damaged the ropes of one and informed men it needed fixing. The bridge was drawn up, and Lyanna Stark was stuck outside until the midday meal. Lady Stark’s reaction to Lyanna stealing the horse was quite something.”

Ashara was chuckling at the story and Oberyn was amused from recounting it.

“Lyanna Stark was a horrible girl. Selfish. And Sansa had been quite patient with her,” Oberyn explained. “But, the day little Stark stole Sansa’s horse from the family stables was a step too far for Sansa. No one suspected what she did. She told me; called it ‘Harmless inconveniences’. Jaime nearly fell off his horse laughing. He told me actually,” Oberyn corrected himself. “Sansa just confirmed it.”

Elia could remember what the Lannister heir had been like when her mother had brought her and Oberyn to Casterly Rock to propose the marriage of them to each of the twins. Of her hosts, Cersei Lannister dominated her memory of the visit.

Cersei had been awful to a poor little babe that had done no wrong except look different. When Oberyn argued Tyrion was not a monster and just a babe, Cersei had said ‘He killed my mother. It doesn’t matter. Everyone says he will die soon. I hope they’re right. He should not have lived this long’.

Jaime Lannister, on the other hand, had shown far less hatred towards his babe brother and stopped his twin from harming the babe before she’d taken matters too far.

But any time Elia had seen the heir in Casterly Rock, Cersei wasn’t far behind. Or rather, he wasn’t far behind her. “And was Cersei riding with them?” Elia asked, wondering why there was no mention of the cruel girl. “It’s strange she isn’t in your story.”

Oberyn shook his head with a frown. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” he commented. “Cersei Lannister struck her brother and Sansa while under Guest right sennights ago. Cersei and Lady Genna departed shortly after. There’s a song about it now; ‘The Mad Lioness’. But you won’t hear anyone singing it so close to Tywin Lannister; he hates it with a passion.”

Ashara’s had mixed emotions on her face. “I can imagine; but what are the words?”

Elia looked around the chamber for anyone listening to them; her brother briefly did the same. Neither of them saw anyone so Oberyn uttered the words in song under his breath for them to hear. By the end of it, Ashara’s eyes were glistening with laughter and Elia couldn’t help feeling sorry for the Hand and Warden. To have your reputation destroyed by such shameful acts from your own daughter had to be horrible.

Lord Tywin had insulted a seventeen year old Elia by offering an infant Tyrion for marriage instead of his heir three years ago, but Elia had a caring heart despite what Lord Tywin had done.

All of the Lannisters would be suffering from the behaviour of Cersei, and a song dedicated to the act was heavy salt to the wound. It mustn’t have had time to reach Starfall and their ears. From the words of the song Obeyrn had muttered, it implied the heir had protected the host from his own sister but to no avail.

It clashed with her memory of the boy who followed his sister in Casterly Rock without hesitation.

She wondered what made him change.

The point of wondering was moot now; it was quite probably a betrothal proposal concerning Lady Sansa would be finalised to Lord Tully to mend relations between the neighbouring Great Houses. Elia still had no betrothed and she’d be considered an old maid if there was no betrothal and marriage for her soon.

Ashara’s voice broke her thoughts. “It’s obvious you intend to joust for the tourney,” Ashara commented, tilting her head towards the window. “I thought you favoured melee?”

“I do; on both accounts,” he confirmed. “It’s funny you should ask. The Lannister heir is the reason I’m doing both; melee and joust.”

This sparked Elia’s curiosity. “Oberyn, I’ve known you to hold grudges, so why would you be doing both for a Lannister?” It didn’t make any sense to Elia.

“There’s a wager between Jaime Lannister and me.” Elia straightened in her seat to listen. “If I win both, he will owe me thirty Dragons and have to dance with Sansa at the tourney’s closing feast,” Oberyn divulged with a mischievous smirk. “In Riverrun he denied he liked the girl, but I saw differently. I’ll see him dance at the feast if it’s the last thing I do.”

Elia just shook her head at the explanation. “You allowed a boy of…almost ten to goad you into jousting? Oberyn, it’s not your strength.”

“I know,” her brother acknowledged. “I’ve been practising for over a moon,” Oberyn shared with them before he smirked. “You saw me unhorse that Westerman. My efforts show, do they not?”

Elia walked up to her brother and put a hand on each shoulder, looking at the black eyes meeting hers. “Yes, but be careful, brother,” she urged, imploring him with her eyes. “Jousters can get crippled in a tourney. It’s the last thing I’d want for you.”

“She’s right,” Ashara agreed but remaining in her seat. “A joust is more dangerous than a melee; at least a melee has blunted swords. What if your foot gets caught in a stirrup?”

Elia knew her brother, her younger brother. He was a man of action and never backed down from a challenge. No matter how much she talked to him about her concerns he would still participate unless she got on her knees and begged. Elia knew Oberyn and he was a proud man.

“You worry, but you don’t need to,” he told them fondly. “I’ll be careful for you, Sister,” he promised, rising from his seat and leading the way to a bedchamber.

Following him into the bedchamber, Elia watched as he opened a few chests but didn’t find something and turned his attention back to them. “Sansa made something for you while her mother was with babes.” His expression turned sympathetic and Elia felt dread for Oberyn’s friend. “Poor girl, reunited with family and Minisa Tully dies in childbed soon after; but it seems she used my vial. She got to say goodbye to her mother.”

 _What vial? What could have been in it?_  

Baffled, Elia seated herself on the bed and looked to her younger brother. “Oberyn, what-?”

Oberyn sat down and explained. “I suspected Lady Tully would die,” he confided in them. “I could see her forced grace while she carried these babes; twins.” He appeared to be remembering something before he shook his head. “But I am no maester; Citadel or not.”

Ashara looked to Elia before Oberyn continued. “I manipulated Sansa during a dagger spar by tripping her, and with an Essosi concoction, I stopped the bleeding injury. I gave her a vial and told her to always carry it with her. It seems she did.”

Elia wasn’t fond of manipulating a person, but her brother wouldn’t have done it to such a girl without reason. “What happened, Oberyn? Does she know you tricked her?”

“Yes. Or at least I suspect,” he replied without regret. “She’s given looks of gratitude since her mother’s death. Her new brothers survived, and Sansa had a chance to speak with her mother before the end.” The sympathy Elia could see in her brother was heavy when he looked into Elia’s eyes. “She loved her; feared for her. Sansa didn’t deserve for her mother to face such a fate.”

Elia smiled sadly to Oberyn. “You did what you could, Oberyn. I trust that you did.”

Oberyn looked away, but Elia brought his eyes back to her with her hand. “I did,” he said. “Yet it tore her to pieces anyway. I saw her fleeing in the halls that day.”

The topic was creating a miserable atmosphere and Elia pointed out the good in what he’d done. “She got to say goodbye to her mother, Oberyn. Few people are given the chance for final words. You gave her that and it sounds like she knows it.”

Oberyn rose to his feet and gave his sister a smile. “Sansa’s clever,” he told them. “She would know.” He went over to a chest at the end of his bed and pulled out a beautiful dress made for warmer climates such as Dorne. “When I told her you were bringing the sword Needle, she later asked for your measurements. I hope what I told her was close.”

Elia took the dress, held it against her body and looked to Ashara for her thoughts. “It looks close, Elia,” remarked Ashara, who turned and pushed a non-resistant Oberyn out of his own bedchamber, who laughed all the while. Closing the door, her friend turned to Elia and gestured for the other dress to be taken off.

Elia wasn’t overly fussed about beauty since she had very little, but she decided to amuse Ashara and started with the laces, which Ashara quickly took control and loosened them until the dress slipped off Elia’s shoulders; pooling on the floor.

Stepping out of the fabric puddle and putting it on the bed, Elia put on the gift and waited patiently as Ashara enjoyed donning her in the new dress like a doll; murmuring comments as her swift hands did what was needed.

When Ashara finally stepped out of the way of the looking glass both of them gasped. There was the sound of the door opening, but Elia didn’t look away from the sight looking back at her in the looking glass.

It was a woman she saw in the looking glass every day, but the dress brought a smile to her face as her hands brushed the fabric. “It’s…”

Oberyn came into view behind her looking happy for her. “You’re beautiful.”

Simply phrased but so fitting. Elia looked to Ashara, whose expression was pleased. “He’s right,” she agreed with an open face hiding no lie. Her friend turned to Oberyn. “Seems you’re useful for something besides trouble, Red Viper.”

Oberyn gave a wry look and didn’t back down. “And lords’ sons fight over you, Ashara,” he retorted smugly. “Not so different in my eyes.” Elia listened to Oberyn and Ashara bout of banter, wondering who would win this time.

Ashara was smirking at Elia’s brother. “One of them writes instead of fights.”

“Oh?” Oberyn remarked, seating himself on the bed. “You seem pleased. And who writes to Starfall’s sixteen year old heiress?” he asked, eyes glinting and a mischievous smirk.

Her friend wasn’t making it easy for him. “And have you scare them off?” Ashara commented, walking to the post of the bed. “It’s a secret that won’t leave my lips, Oberyn.”

Elia watched over Ashara’s shoulder as his smirk twitched. “Have your lips touched theirs?” Oberyn commented offhandedly. Ashara didn’t reply. “Seems not,” he assumed and continued to needle her. “Far away or too gallant?” She listened as Oberyn chuckled; Ashara must have given something away. “Ahhh, too far away. Not a Dornishman or Reach then.”

However, Ashara was not giving in easily. “Your lips touch everything in their reach.” Elia laughed at the retort.

Oberyn tucked his arms behind his head as he leaned against the wall. “You’re missing out, Ashara. Live a little.”

“And get exiled?” the younger girl of sixteen shot back. “You won’t find me in a paramour’s bed.”

Her brother was smug when he spoke. “I’ve seen two women together,” he replied, his voice getting lower. “Such secrets in a woman’s body. Such delights,” he murmured slowly. Ashara shifted on her feet and Elia shot Oberyn a look. “You should try,” he suggested in a light tone.

Elia could see he was treading beyond Ashara’s comfort. “Oberyn, you’re my brother, but enough,” she scolded him. And she saw right through his look of guilt. “We’re all entitled to a secret or two.”

Oberyn’s lips twitched when he looked at the dress. “Indeed.”

Elia sighed and put her head in her hand. What has her brother done beyond what she knew? But she couldn’t go asking about it now after what she just said. She changed the subject to something lighter. “The dress is beautiful, Oberyn,” she genuinely said in appreciation. “I’ll send my thanks when the chance arises.”

He got off the wall and lead the way out to the dining area, laughing as he switched into a fresh tunic. “Lady Sansa’s little under a mile away. You could send a rider easily if you very well wanted.”

The answer in her mind wouldn’t leave her. Oberyn’s story of Sansa Tully and Jaime Lannister only credited her belief. “Casterly Rock?”

“Yes, she’s here for the tourney, and something else,” he told her before looking thoughtful. “I haven’t seen her for some time in truth.”

“Which is?” Elia asked, wondering what her brother was up to. However, she felt she knew why a Great House daughter would be hosted in the castle of another.

Oberyn just smiled at her. “Sweet sister, it’s a secret,” he teased, Elia rolled her eyes.

“Never mind your secrets, Oberyn,” Elia waved off, embracing the brother she hadn’t seen for so long. “What happened after Lys?” she asked. “Three years.”

He gave her a squeeze and let go when he poured them all some wine. “I ventured across Essos,” he started, looking to each of them. “Fighting, drinking…beautiful women,” Oberyn said, gesturing towards the dress with his wine goblet. “And mysteries with no possible answers.” That one didn’t really make sense, but Elia knew what he meant. “I fought along with the Second Sons for a time,” he admitted and Elia didn’t doubt it was true.

Then he turned melancholy. “Their methods are what saved Sansa’s infant brothers.”

Ashara’s movement caught Elia’s attention. “You care a lot about that girl,” Ashara observed, swirling her wine in the goblet. “But you must have met on River Road because she was raised in Harrenhal by a healer.”

Oberyn seemed to be remembering something and replied after a moment. “You should have seen the look on her face when we met.” Elia suspected Oberyn’s lips just twitched but it was too small to be sure.

Ashara took a sip and put the goblet down. “Likely scared the daylights out of her.”

It peaked Elia’s interest when he didn’t banter with Ashara. “Something like that,” he agreed. “Shock really. I don’t believe she expected to see the Red Viper in Westeros,” Oberyn commented, rising from his seat and gesturing in the direction of two adjoining bedchambers to the dining area. The doors were wide open and displaying where Elia and Ashara would be staying for the tourney. “I’m assuming your possessions reside on the ship?”

“Aye,” Ashara replied, getting to her feet. “I’ll inform the crew to bring them here.”

Elia stood up from her own seat. “That’d be lovely, Ashara. Thank you.”

Alone with her brother, Elia made sure the door to the halls had closed properly behind Ashara before leading Oberyn into a bedchamber and closing that door as well.

 

OBERYN MARTELL

His sister was a kind and clever woman with a gentle heart and he had long missed her. She was one year his senior, but through the years in Sunspear before his exile he’d fended off men from her who only wanted a royal title. They had a strong friendship and he would be devastated if something ever happened to Elia. She would feel the same about him, albeit react differently if it ever occurred.

Oberyn didn’t know Ashara well enough to entrust her with the truth about Sansa ‘Tully’, however, Elia was a different story.

She was the only one.

One letter six moons ago when he and the Little lady made port at Gulltown was the reason why Elia likely concluded that the story spread by the Tullys’ was not the truth.

Elia had the mind, but not the thorns Olenna Tyrell was known for.

“Brother,” Elia whispered beside him. “What have you done? Your ‘Little lady’; she’s from Braavos, isn’t she?” Elia correctly guessed.

Oberyn had no answer for her but this. “Elia, she has a strong resemblance of that family. How could I have known otherwise?” he replied quietly. Neither of them needed to be told to never utter names; they were in Lannister territory. “Twice, she has been mistaken for the eldest. Twice, families have believed the claim true. They’re so alike it would be difficult to call the story a falsehood.”

“I know you, Oberyn,” she said, putting her hand on his. “You were only doing what seemed right,” Elia commented, giving a sympathetic smile. “We can only move forward now. I know she’s betrothed to the heir; it won’t bother me if you speak of it, Oberyn.”

She did know him. He hadn’t spoken of the betrothal too blatantly in front of Elia in case the reminder of being rejected would hurt her.

“Tell me about the sword,” his sister continued, curious about the history behind it. “We can’t take it there now,” Elia remarked quietly. “It mustn’t enter that place or it will cast suspicion upon her.”

Elia, once again, had the right of it. To bring something as peculiar as Needle to Casterly Rock for Sansa was idiotic. Tywin Lannister was a narcissistic snob with his head up his arse, however, he was not entirely stupid. That sword would give him a chance to poke well-patched holes in Sansa’s story.

Oberyn didn’t give one wit whether or not Sansa was a bastard, which he was quite inclined to believe as correct. The Tullys had had no history of children stolen in the night and Sansa’s story of how she found herself in Braavos was weak. Whatever she was, Oberyn didn’t care, but he did care about his friends.

She was doing well for herself. Accepted into the folds of the Tully family; creating something of a grand reputation in the Seven Kingdoms; betrothed to marry into the richest family of those kingdoms to a boy who treated her right. Sansa was a bastard, but bastards aren’t despised by Dornish. Oberyn wasn’t going to ruin this for her, especially by spreading the truth.

Elia wasn’t vengeful like him, but she wasn’t likely to destroy a girl’s future out of jealousy. That simply wasn’t Elia.

In a way, Oberyn considered it a form of revenge for insulting Elia. By letting Lannister betrothed his son to a convincing bastard and Oberyn not saying a word about it, he was avenging the insult of Lannister offering a babe to be betrothed to Elia instead of the heir.

Of course the revenge would be a secret one between Oberyn and Elia, but all the same, the deception satisfied Oberyn twice over simultaneously. Revenge for his sister, and a good future for Little lady.

Oberyn briefly explained to Elia what she didn’t know about the sword and how he came to have it on his ship. “To have brought it to her home when she wasn’t versed in using it would have meant pointless extra weight for my horse,” he said, making sure to be quiet. “If they turned her away, it would’ve been carried for nothing. I hadn’t expected her to be accepted with such a weak story. They had no choice, I admit.”

Elia was still seated beside him looking thoughtful. “No choice? The resemblance?” she guessed.

“Yes,” he confirmed, watching Elia raise an eyebrow. “Side by side the girls could be twins. Our friend, however, is a little pale and hair of bright fire.”

“Who knows about this, Oberyn?” Elia asked in the whisper they’d used the whole time. “I told no one.”

“You,” he began. “Me; the lord father; an uncle; and the lord grandfather. So long as no one else does I can say the snob wouldn’t have a clue.”

Oberyn knew there was much at stake if anyone uttered a word in opposition to the fabricated story about Harrenhal. As shown by Ashara earlier, before she’d left for the harbour, the repetitive gossip about Sansa was taking hold.

Repeat something often enough and it becomes the truth and common knowledge. In a few more moons it would be difficult to refute the story, especially since he’d made mentions of the story among the knights for the tourney and smallfolk in Lannisport. The knights would spread the story in their homelands and the smallfolk would solidify the lie here.

Oberyn was determined to succeed in avenging the insult to his sister. And Lannister, the self-important shit, was muddying his legacy without even knowing it. No one in Westeros but a select few knew the truth.

Oberyn would never let it be discovered and put the Tullys at risk. Sansa loved them too much; too much for Oberyn to be selfish to the point of tearing her heart out for his own satisfaction concerning Lannister. Sansa was a friend of the prince. Silent satisfaction would suffice for him, and most definitely Elia.

The heart of Elia was gentle. She wouldn’t consider such cruelty for her own pleasure.

“You enjoy the thought of Lord Tywin being outwitted too much.”

“Why would I not?”

Elia gave him a wry look and rose to her feet. “Any longer and Ashara will return,” she commented, brushing her hand down the skirts of the dress Sansa had made. “She honestly made this?”

Oberyn followed his sister out to the dining area and squeezed her shoulder. Ever since that servant in Dorne had the gall the call Elia a ‘kitchen drab’, it had impacted on her confidence on the rare occasion. “Yes, Elia, and you look lovely,” he reassured her.

He had no idea how Sansa knew just what kind of dress would best flatter his sister’s figure without ever hearing a word about Elia from him. Mayhaps she got a description from somebody else; it was possible. However, the extent that it truly flattered Elia’s appearance was something few dressmakers had managed to achieve.

His thoughts were interrupted by Elia fidgeting restlessly with the skirts. “Elia? You’re bothered. What is it?” he asked, watching Elia standing in front of the looking glass in the bedchamber to be hers for their stay.

Elia turned to him nearly biting her lip; a habit she’d long defeated. “To demand her time would be unbecoming of me...” Elia said slowly, and Oberyn knew what she was going to say. “…I rarely ask for anything I don’t need, Oberyn, and yet…”

He came to her side and smiled, it was rare for Elia to ask for anything that would merely make her happy. “You desire Sansa to make a few for you,” he finished for her.

Elia shook her head and faced him. “More than one is too many, Oberyn,” she opposed, imploring him with her gaze. “She’s to become Casterly Rock’s lady one day.”

_That’s Elia._


	23. Needlework and Needle

 SANSA STARK

_Day 2, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

“My lady?” A girl’s voice murmured beside her bed. “My lady, you requested I woke you early today.”

Turning in her bed, Sansa opened her eyes and looked up at Rosina, the handmaid assigned for her since she’d arrived her almost a moon ago. Nodding, she climbed out and sat down at the vanity for Rosina to brush her hair as normal. “You’re right, Rosina, I did and thank you. The usual riding plait please.”

“Lady Sansa, they’re opening the tourney with a breaking of fast feast in Lannisport Castle,” Rosina pointed out without fear. The girl had been meek in the beginning, but Sansa’s persistence on the handmaid speaking her mind to Sansa had worn her down.

In the looking glass, Sansa could see Rosina’s confusion and expanded on what she’d said. “Yes, there’s no time for a trail ride, but I do need to go to Lannisport first. I’ll return and you can prepare me for the breaking of fast.” Sansa waited until she felt Rosina tie off her plait and turned around. “And in here or alone, it’s Sansa.”

“Of course, Sansa.”

Selecting her Tully themed mummer’s gown, it took little time for Sansa to be ready and Rosina stepped backed having done the front lacing of the corset. “Thank you, Rosina. Why don’t you inform the stables to prepare my horse and have some time to yourself until I return?”

The handmaid curtsied. “That’s very kind, my lady.”

“You’re welcome,” Sansa replied, nodding towards the door and watching the handmaid go. Reaching to the bottom of the chest with her mummer’s gowns, Sansa took out a package before locking the chest again. Roughly twenty minutes later she was mounted on Grey Grace and left Casterly Rock without either of her knights. It truly was early.

The ride to Lannisport showed her the tourney stands completed and it was impressive. Close to the city and its appearance showing true wealth, Sansa continued riding and was within the city walls in only moments. Within the short distance between the castle and tourney structure, were countless wheelhouses; some with sigils she knew and others that were lesser houses she’d never met or read about.

It took little time for Sansa to locate the establishment Oberyn was staying; his directions had been very clear in the note he’d sent. Sansa was missing his casual company compared to the stifling tension in Casterly Rock. Uncle Brynden had arrived and Lord Tywin gave no impression to the man there was anything wrong, however, Sansa had been careful to limit the time spent behind closed doors or risk Lord Tywin growing suspicious.

He hadn’t kept her confined to Casterly Rock in any way, but he’d never left her alone without Ser Gerion prior to her uncle’s arrival. However, that had changed to a more distanced watch once Uncle Brynden was there.

Reaching the door with the Martell sigil hanging on the handle, Sansa knocked lightly and heard footsteps from within.

When the door opened, she saw Oberyn’s tall form smiling down to her. He wore merely breeches and a tunic. “Sansa,” he greeted happily, opening the door the rest of the way and letting her into a communal area, a dining area.

Placing the package on the table, Sansa turned when his callused palm accidentally brushed hers as he reached to feel what was wrapped inside without opening it. “You finished it?” he asked quietly, an expression of almost daring not to hope.

Sansa merely smiled and nodded.

He looked at her in disbelief and she could see the nuances of a restrained desire to hug her. Seeing no harm in it, she opened her own arms and he swept her up in a bone-crushing hug. She’d never seen him like this; so full of excitement. “Oberyn, what has gotten into you?” she asked when he put her down.

“Elia’s going to love this,” he told her before going to a closed door. “Elia,” he called with no amount of quiet.

“Oberyn, it’s not even sun up.” was the muffled reply a minute later. “Go back to sleep,” she told irritably him through the door.

Sansa felt there was an unspoken insult and had to bite her tongue so she wouldn’t laugh. It was a hard task.

Oberyn didn’t relent. “You won’t care it’s not sun up. Just get decent and get out here.”

The other closed door opened and a girl of sixteen emerged, dressed and her long black hair down and loose but brushed. Hadn’t it been for the violet eyes, Sansa wouldn’t have a confident idea who this could be.

Ashara Dayne.

She was so beautiful that Sansa could understand why there were men and boys contending for her attention; including the King’s Landing rumour about Lord Eddard in his youth.

The lady was stifling a yawn with her hand and taking in Sansa’s appearance, eyes on the trout embroidery of the mummer’s gown before rising to her hair. “Good morrow, Lady Tully,” presumably Ashara said and turned to Oberyn. “Oberyn, Elia does have a point.”

Oberyn had no look of regret. “It will be worth it, Ashara. Could you help Elia?”

Sansa was cold from the chilled ride here, for it was true, it was not even sun up but Sansa had little time to spare closer to the breaking of fast feast. She had time to briefly meet the sister Oberyn clearly loved, and Ashara, once both women emerged from Princess Elia’s chamber. Putting a kettle on the fire, Sansa hoped she could have a warm drink before a hasty ride back.

She was not a prisoner of Lord Tywin’s, but she had to keep from bringing suspicion upon herself. Sansa was without the presence of Ser Gerion, Lord Tywin’s youngest brother, something she felt that every day reassured the Lion of Lannister. Ser Gerion wouldn’t be rising for another two hours yet; her usual time for riding.

Shaking off the thoughts, Sansa took a seat while Oberyn stoked the fire. “So,” he began. “Snuck out of Casterly Rock before sunrise, did you?” said Oberyn. “Getting away from the mean lion?”

Sansa shook her head but didn’t get to answer when Ashara Dayne and Princess Elia emerged, and Elia’s eyes fell upon her. Getting to her feet, Sansa stepped forward and dipped into a deep curtsy. “Lady Ashara, Princess Elia, it’s a pleasure.”  After everything Oberyn had done for her the very least Sansa could do for his sister was give the woman of twenty her utmost respect.

_I’d still be in Braavos had Oberyn not encountered my needlepoint in that market square._

Once Sansa was properly standing again, she wished both women a good morrow, but Princess Elia’s response wasn’t what she’d expected.

“If I may call you Sansa?” the princess requested politely, which she granted. “Sansa, please feel comfortable to call me Elia,” she offered to Sansa with a gentle smile. “Formalities are tiresome, are they not?”

Sansa hesitated to smile for a second before she gave the princess a genuine one. “I feel we shall be using them for quite a time today, Elia.” Elia smiled at the reply.

“What’s brought you here so early, Sansa? I didn’t know we were expecting a guest,” she said, turning to Oberyn for the second part. Oberyn grinned at his sister making Elia roll her eyes, Ashara shaking her head.

Sansa walking over to the package drew attention to it, and she watched as Elia’s lips parted in surprise. “I wouldn’t have had time to spare closer to the breaking of fast feast,” she explained apologetically.

The princess was standing stock-still until Ashara gave the woman a nudge, prompting her to approach Sansa. From where she stood, Sansa watched as Elia looked her in the eyes and gently unwrapped what Sansa had created. Ashara was in a bedchamber getting something and returned with a looking glass.

When Elia saw the dress on the top and held it against herself, looking into the looking glass in Ashara’s hands, the princess’s soft eyes met Sansa’s and Sansa felt her lips curve into a smile. “Sansa, this…it’s amazing,” Elia complimented but at a loss for words.

Behind them was a ruffle of the wrapping and they looked to see Oberyn holding up the second one. “Let’s not celebrate just yet, Sister,” he suggested, exchanging the one in Elia’s hands for the one he’d just picked up. “Looks like Sansa spoiled you.”

Sansa blushed when Elia looked at her incredulously. “Another?” Sansa couldn’t deny it and nodded. “Oberyn,” Elia scolded her brother wryly. “You didn’t request a second, did you? The amount of work that requires-“

“Easy, Elia. That wasn’t me,” he defended himself and hands at his shoulders. “Look like Sansa here made that choice on her own,” the prince remarked confidently. “Did you not?”

“Yes,” Sansa confirmed, watching Elia seeing the reflection of herself with the second dress. “Oberyn requested a dress last sennight. And final matters for the tourney were complete a sennight ago, leaving me with much time spare.”

Elia came over to Sansa and sat on a seat so they were eye level. “And you spent all that time on another dress?” she asked graciously.

Sansa felt her cheeks flush as she nodded. “Yes, Elia, but not quite. I have a sure hand in needlepoint. It was no trouble, I assure you.”

“That is so sweet of you, Sansa,” Elia said with her eyes looking a little moist. The princess reached out and Sansa stepped into the princess’s embrace. “They’re beautiful…and worthy of a tourney.”

She wasn’t sure she heard right and stepped back slightly so she could see Elia’s face. Sansa searched her face for any tricks but found none. “You’re wearing one to the tourney?” she asked, struck with surprise.

Elia was a little amused. “Both.”

Sansa smiled at the news. She had made gowns for weddings but this was something more meaningful; not merely another client. “I’d be honoured, Elia,” she thanked the princess profusely. “Truly.”

The soft expression from the woman was making Sansa’s courtly walls crack, and Elia quickly had both dresses in hand. “Would you help me with the laces?” Elia asked, rising from her seat.

When she received word from Oberyn how much Elia had grown fond of the first dress and desired a second, Sansa had made it her priority in leisure to craft dresses worthy of a princess. With years of being a dressmaker of repute; making only a single dress for Elia seemed too small of a task.  

Oberyn himself voiced the request beyond prying ears and she didn’t deny him, promising the dress would be ready in time for the tourney in case Princess Elia so wished to wear it. However, Sansa had made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t expect Elia to wear it at the tourney out of obligation.

She kept her intentions of a second dress as secret, not certain of what the coming days would hold and if she would have the time. Alas, she did.

Sansa stood up and mirrored the princess. “Of course,” she replied. Normally she wouldn’t let herself become so relaxed in a place other than Riverrun or with strangers. However, she noted as she followed Elia into a bedchamber, Sansa didn’t feel as though she was with a stranger. Not truly.

Elia gave no impression or had the nuances of someone selfish and false from court. Openly scolding Oberyn when she thought her brother had taken advantage of Sansa could have been a farce, but the expressions were authentic; including the ones when she thanked Sansa for the dresses.

Nothing shown to Sansa was vague or secretive, which Sansa was so used to deciphering with sharp eyes.

The princess went behind the screen and Sansa was looking out the window facing the Sunset Sea. “Sansa?” Elia spoke patiently. “Could you do the laces?”

Going behind the screen, she saw Elia fitted into the dress well and using her deft hands, Sansa did the laces and concealed them with extra fabric on one side that went over to discreet buttons on the other. The princess was too tall for Sansa to see what she was thinking about it, but Elia approached the long looking glass and smiled at the reflection.

The slowness that Elia was looking at her appearance and touching the dress with reminded Sansa of being in private and lost in thought. Elia blinked and swallowed, hands brushing the embroidery with the lightness of handling something precious. Lastly, she brought a hand to her mouth and took a shaky breath.

“Sansa…it’s beautiful,” Elia said in a whisper.

Walking to her side, Sansa met her eyes in the looking glass. “You’re beautiful in a different way to most,” she uttered softly. “Your eyes lit up in the dining area, the smile, the confident way you stood,” Sansa explained to Elia’s confused look. “You’re most beautiful when you’re happy,” she surmised, and Elia turned from the looking glass and met her eyes. “You don’t need my dress to be beautiful, Elia. You need only your smile.”

Elia, with a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder, led her over to the bed and sat down. “Your dresses make me happy,” the princess told her, thumbing Sansa’s palm. “Thank you, Sansa.” When Elia lifted Sansa’s hand and kissed her knuckles, Sansa felt conflicted by the contradictory act.

_Elia is a princess. I’m only a lady._

Not sure what to say, Sansa reached for the second dress which sat beside her on the bed and Elia accepted it from her with a gracious smile. Finally, Sansa had a response. “There are no more rewarding words than hearing someone appreciate your efforts.”

Elia led the way behind the screen and replied while Sansa undid the buttons and laces. “I understand your caution around me, Sansa. Let me tell you something,” she began quietly. “Six moons ago I received a letter sent from Gulltown-“

Sansa’s breaths almost catch but she controlled her breathing and didn’t falter with the buttons.

“-written by Oberyn explaining he was returning to Sunspear from Braavos with a small companion if a detour to Riverrun went differently than he expected. Almost a moon afterwards, my older brother, Doran, was reading aloud a letter sent by the Tullys. The story of a daughter hidden for ten years due to weak health.”

The laces were loose by this point and Elia turned around, kneeling to Sansa’s level and close to her ear. “Oberyn’s letter never included who you were, but the story sent to my home from Riverrun soon after made a clear connection.”

_She knows…By the Gods, she knows!_

Sansa had absolutely had nothing to defend herself with.

Nothing to deny her Braavosi origin in this life.

Elia had a solid understanding of the truth.

_There’s no point running._

_What is she going to do with this information?_

Sansa made sure her face would give away nothing when Elia pulled away from her ear. The princess seemed to recognise something in her eyes though. “Sansa, no one else knows; not even Doran,” the princess whispered. “Not Ashara. No one,” she promised quietly. “Oberyn and I, that is all. He brought you to Westeros, and I’ll do what I can so you can stay safe in Westeros.”

She was at the princess’s mercy and many had lied to her in the past; to trust on face value was a fool’s mistake. “How can I know that?”

Elia gently clasped Sansa’s hands with her eyes sad. “It breaks my heart to see one so young so prepared for the worst.” Elia sighed. “Sansa, I’ve had this knowledge in my hands for moons and done nothing with it. If I wanted to ruin your life why would I tell you I know your secret? Such a thing would only be to your advantage; not informing you would be to my advantage.”

She had to disagree to an extent. “Telling me could be used as leverage to make me do something for you,” Sansa disputed. Lord Tywin had done something similar, except his demand was silence concerning the behaviour between his twins.

Sansa’s response seemed to pain Elia a little. “I doubt you know this, but my family once came to Casterly Rock to betrothed myself and Oberyn to the Lannister twins,” she explained gently with no malice in her expression. “We were rejected, and a less than polite one. Lord Tywin offered an infant to be my betrothed. I was seventeen at the time.”

“Tyrion?”

Elia nodded. “Yes. And Oberyn never forgot the slight.” Sansa had never heard this story but it sounded plausible. “I want you to think, Sansa. Tywin’s desire for legacy is no secret, and if Oberyn could avenge that insult to me he would, would he not? You’ve known him for moons.”

_He died fighting your rapist and the murderer of you and your children._

“Yes,” Sansa agreed, but saying no more than that or risk divulging something too sensitive.

The progress led to a small smile from Elia. “What better way is there for Oberyn to avenge that insult than standing by as Lord Tywin betroths and weds his heir to a fake Tully?” Elia explained, watching Sansa’s reaction from where they were huddled behind the screen. “We know you love the Tullys; see them as true family. Oberyn says you absolutely love Oswell and Joseth. We wouldn’t harm them; directly or indirectly.”

She did and would never forgive herself if something happened to them. “I do.”

Elia didn’t immediately speak and Sansa watched the princess. This woman knew everything she had been concealing from the rest of Westeros for moons. From Elia’s side of the story, it made sense for the Martells not to say anything.

_And what would they have to gain from speaking of the truth?_

_Very little, if anything._

All the same, Sansa feared for her family and Elia must have seen that.

_Damn my eyes._

“Oberyn has been your friend for moons and said nothing to two Great Houses in Riverrun. He’s a mischievous one, Oberyn, but he would never hurt you,” Elia reassured, brushing away stray hairs from Sansa’s face. “The Martells will never betray your secret; even to Doran. I swear it.” Elia paused for a second. “We don’t break our oaths.”

A younger Sansa may have trusted the princess by now, but Sansa was a battered soul aware of the cruelty of the world.

Elia sighed and looked sad. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? Not even yourself sometimes.” Sansa didn’t answer anything, she only trusted the Tullys and two of the Starks she’d met. The princess looked in the direction of the door and Sansa stilled herself completely. “Oberyn,” Elia called out.

_He knows the most about me._

Sansa heard the door open and close along with the heavier sound of male footsteps. “I’m presuming you’re behind the screen?” Oberyn guessed but not taking a step. Sansa quickly laced and buttoned Elia and followed the princess out from behind the privacy screen.

“Stunning,” the prince uttered at the sight of his sister in the pastel blue dress with cream embroidery and turned to Sansa. “You’ve outdone yourself, Sansa.” Elia glanced towards the door and Oberyn’s casual posture faded. “Ashara’s sleeping. There’s much time before ladies, well, need to be ladies.”

Remaining quiet was wearing away at Sansa and she needed answers for she hadn’t uttered a word in many minutes. “Prince Oberyn,” Sansa addressed, drawing both of their attention, Oberyn looking surprised by the formality. “When you first encountered me you intended to take me to Sunspear to be Princess Elia’s dressmaker,” she recalled. “Was this true?”

Oberyn sat down and his height didn’t tower over her. “It was,” he replied, relaxing a hand on the bed to get comfortable. “But matters are quite different now. You have a family, a home and a betrothed. Very different.” Oberyn looked at Elia and his expression changed.

It appeared Elia had silently conveyed the situation to him.

“Sansa," he continued. "I cause trouble. I don’t deny it, but I’m not heartless like Tywin Lannister. I don’t care you’re a bastard girl. You’re a caring bastard girl and there’s nothing wrong with that. You were kind to my sister because you could be and few people treat her so. You have friends in Elia and me, and you have a life now. We won’t take it away.”

_After Cersei, Littlefinger, even Daenerys…blunt and obsessed as she was._

_They all took what I treasured from me._

Oberyn knelt in front of her and drew Sansa’s attention away from her thoughts. “Sansa, if you trust in no one you will be very lonely and always afraid,” he reasoned with her. Sansa knew it was true, but it had kept her alive in Westeros before the end. “I’ve kept your secret. Elia has kept your secret. We know the danger to your family if we spoke a word of the truth. Six moons and we’ve said nothing.”

Without having to ask them, they had proven they could remain silent about something very controversial. But how could she know it wasn’t because they were waiting for an opportune moment?

_But there was nothing for them to gain from it._

Eyes going from one Martell to the other, Sansa finally relented and did something she scarcely did; prayed to the old gods she was making the right choice.

The sound of a key and lock drew her attention to a chest Oberyn was opening and brought something out of it.

She recognised the shape immediately.

_Needle…Arya._

He placed its shaped casing on the bed and stepped aside for Sansa, who looked to both of them and saw them nod in unison. She opened the case and saw the sword inside in a gleaming and sharp condition. With careful hands, she lifted it out without stepping away and felt the weight of what remained of her Stark sister.

_Arya…_

_Who would have thought a sword would come to matter so much to me?_

_I miss you, Arya._

Closing her eyes but maintaining her hold of Needle, Sansa remembered the happy days in her girlhood when she still played and ran with Arya. It was so long ago and she wished she had been a better sister to Arya before leaving Winterfell for King’s Landing. They were different girls, but it could have been a far better relationship before it all.

Placing the sword back in the casing made for it at some point, Sansa realised her breathing was shaky and wiped the tear tracks off her face. Simply staring at the sword in the velvet casing, she took a breath and reluctantly closed the two latches on the side.

It was difficult to hand Arya’s Needle back to Oberyn, and he seemed sympathetic. “Elia and I agreed it was too dangerous for you if we brought it to Casterly Rock. I felt you’d want to see it given the chance.”

“I did, Oberyn, thank you,” Sansa replied, looking at the casing longingly. “You protected me by not bringing it to Casterly Rock.” She had to admit they had acted in her best interest and not in theirs of seeing a promise through as soon as possible.

They had chosen her safety over the convenience of an oath fulfilled at the first opportunity.

Elia took Sansa’s hand and gave it a squeeze but didn’t let go. “Please, Sansa, trust in us,” she implored, soft eyes staring into Sansa steel ones. “We bear no ill will for you.”

Sansa exhaled and nodded. “I will try,” she conceded. “It’s been a long time since I’ve trusted anyone but family.”

It seemed to be enough for Elia. “And I will try believing I’m beautiful,” Elia commented with a little smile. “Agreed?”

Oberyn butted in. “You _are_ beautiful,” he disputed fondly.

Elia didn’t look his way and Sansa copied her while Elia spoke. “Oberyn,” she said in a no-nonsense tone that conveyed a message of dismissal.

“Girls,” he muttered, his steps quietening as the door opened and closed.

Sansa watched as Elia rolled her eyes in amusement and focused on Sansa. “Agreed?” she repeated softly once they were alone.

She took a breath and nodded. “Agreed,” Sansa said rising from the bed.

For a small amount of time they didn’t say anything until Elia lifted the second dress and went behind the screen, Sansa following behind her and assisting Elia out of the first and into the second. The princess looked at herself in the looking glass and ran her hands over the dress. An action Sansa was beginning to associate with Elia thinking about beauty.

Sansa broke the silence to voice her thoughts. “Oberyn’s right you know.” Elia turned to her. “Just look at your smile, the way you stand right now.” The older woman did as Sansa had said and the princess was gazing at her reflection, eyes glancing at what Sansa had pointed out. However, she didn’t seem to see what Sansa could.  

Elia’s beauty was influenced by her mood more so than an effortless beauty like Margaery Tyrell. Elia’s was like a pearl, hidden inside and coming out to be truly seen when people gently opened the shell with kindness.

This dress was a blood red with modest embroidery in silver. Sansa had been hesitant in making it this colour since red was both a Martell and a Lannister sigil colour, but seeing Elia in it now washed away her concerns. The colour worked well with her skin and hair, bringing out her features.

They walked out into the dining area where Oberyn was waiting for them, and he approached to gaze at the second dress. “Sansa,” he said in mock-admonishment. “You’re spoiling her. Do tell me you have made something equally beautiful for yourself?”

“You needn’t worry, Oberyn,” she reassured him, accepting tea from him. “I made a dress nearly a moon ago.”

“Just one?” Oberyn prodded, and Sansa shook her head. “What do they look like?”

Sansa decided to tease him a bit. “I haven’t chosen my dress for today yet.” It was at that moment she realised she was talking clothes with the Red Viper. “It’s peculiar you’re interested in dresses, Oberyn. Did you wish to compete in one?” she asked, which made Elia laugh at her brother.

He looked indignant but quickly recovered and lifted Sansa’s hand to his lips. “I wish for your favour,” he told her, not looking away. “To compete without favour is bad luck even for a prince.” Sansa could see Elia was restraining herself from laughing at the little scene before her with a hand to her mouth.

She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “And no one has given theirs already? Mayhaps it be wise I reserve mine for a skilled fighter like my uncle, Ser Oswell in the Kingsguard,” she remarked, witnessing him act like a mock-devastated soldier. Elia dragged her into her bedchamber and closed the door before bursting into laughter.

“That was priceless. No wonder he never had a dull day in Riverrun,” Elia said, looking at Sansa before something came to the woman’s mind and the princess got up. “That reminds me, Sansa,” she commented, going over to a chest and quickly retrieving a bag with a lead seal.

“Elia?” Sansa asked, not expecting to have received anything for making the dresses. She sat down on the bed, looking at Elia standing nearby.

“Go on,” Elia urged, watching eagerly. “It was the least I could do.”

Checking for just one more moment, Sansa saw Elia was sure and broke the seal. Reaching inside the soft bag, she pulled out a bracelet with care and rested it on the bed.

It was a gold bracelet with two silver beads and two gold beads.

Not believing what she was seeing, Sansa looked to Elia who smiled at her shock. “Those dresses are beautiful, Sansa. When Oberyn told me you would make one for me, I went to a merchant and commissioned this. The sigil of every Great House you’ve met according to Oberyn.”

A gold sun and spear.

A silver trout.

A gold lion head.

A silver wolf head.

Sansa felt as Elia secured the gift on her wrist and tried to oppose. “Elia. This is far too much for three dresses, let alone two. The gift is lovely, but it’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” the princess dismissed. “The detail you’ve put into your needlepoint is exquisite and those dresses are worth every coin I spent on that bracelet.” It seemed as though Elia was exaggerating to Sansa, but when Sansa opened her mouth Elia put her hand over it. “Hush and just take it, Sansa,” she insisted with a sure smile.

Elia moved her hand away and Sansa gazed at the beads of each sigil. It was a priceless gift. The Martells, her family, her betrothed’s, and a trusted family - The Starks.

Elia guided Sansa over to the looking glass until both of them were in the reflection, the princess meeting her eyes with the reflection. “As I am now, in this dress; in your dresses,” Elia began and turning to Sansa. “I feel as though no insult or rejection could make me feel less than I am,” she explained and rested a hand on each of Sansa’s shoulders. “No one can put a price on such a thing, and you’ve made three.”

The thought of one of her dresses meaning so much to anybody was difficult for Sansa to process. She had endlessly made dresses for seven years in Braavos and it was merely an exchange of labour for coin so she could buy food and pay board.

“You have no idea what that means to me, Sansa,” Elia said profusely and leaned down to embrace her. “It means everything.”

Responding in kind, Sansa secretly smiled to herself. Elia was sweet and not afraid to show her insecurities around Sansa. To have someone similar to her, but not hardened and distrusting from cruel experiences, made Sansa have faith that life could include matters beyond duties, burdens, anguish and pain.

She would have to work to make it last, but if she could have a friend like Elia, friends outside of her family, Sansa would invest her knowledge in the best way she could.

Sansa would need to exercise caution though.

_My knowledge won’t be useful forever._

With that thought in mind, she brought her priorities of the morning to the forefront. “I’m glad you’re taken with them, Elia, but I must return to Casterly Rock and prepare for the feast.”

Elia drew back and looked to the window. “I suppose you must,” she remarked in resignation. “It’s odd that I feel as though I’m with someone close to my own age, yet you’re half in truth.” Sansa refrained from smiling at the comment; mentally she was older than Elia. However, she did agree that she felt close to the princess.

Approaching the bedchamber door, Sansa removed a ribbon from her hair and turned to Elia. “I best give Oberyn my favour before he loses all hope to win the tourney,” she remarked sarcastically while opening the door.

“Hey!”

Elia and Sansa laughed at Oberyn’s indignation, but Sansa went along with the fuss and approached Oberyn. “Prince Oberyn, The Red Viper, fighter and friend,” she addressed him and watched him preen under the attention. “I present you with this ribbon as my favour and pray the gods to smile upon you with victories,” she said with a flourish and handed him her ribbon.

“Oh lovely lady, I shall not fail you on the fields,” he accepted in a silly manner. “I shall crown you with flowers.”

Going to the main door, Sansa paused and commented over her shoulder. “I’m betrothed unless you intend to earn Lord Tywin’s ire.”

“To the Seven Hells with Lord Tywin,” he called back to her.

Not dignifying that with a response, Sansa dashed back to her horse and mounted Grey Grace and urging the loyal horse out of the city. The ride took only minutes with less than a mile to travel, and soon enough Sansa handed her mare back to the stable boys.

Immediately, she made for her bedchamber and found the door to the bathing chamber open. Inside without fail was Rosina, filling the tub with a final bucket.

“Sansa.”

“Rosina, perfect timing,” she complimented while unlacing her mummer’s gown and soon in the tub with her bracelet off. “Plenty to do, and little time to do it.” Without prompting, Sansa dipped her hair into the water and began soaping her body while Rosina tended to her hair.

The pair went through the motions swiftly and Rosina was drying Sansa’s hair while the lady herself was lacing a dress of red and blue with veins of gold and silver; symbolic of the two houses joining in the future by marriage between Sansa and Jaime.

Sansa was fully prepared for the feast when there was a knock at the door. “Are you well, Sansa?” Jaime asked through the door, which Rosina opened and Sansa slipped a coin into the handmaid’s hand as thanks for today’s well-done efforts. Rosina left at Sansa’s gesture. “Aunt Genna mentioned the wheelhouse will leave soon.”

Since reading the septon’s letter and her initial words to Jaime, she’d noticed that he hadn’t been smothering her with apologies like she had been expecting. Instead, he’d been polite and not pushing the topic. “I should be fine, Jaime, thank you,” she replied without bite. Sansa didn’t desire to fight with him; she had enough verbal sparring with Lord Tywin on a regular basis.

He looked unsure of himself for a moment but decided something. “If you need anything…I, well, I’ll get it,” he offered and paused for a second with a hesitant air. “You look pretty, Sansa.”

Looking at him, Sansa paused after hearing the genuine comment. “Thank you, Jaime.”

For the sennight, since the strain between them began, Sansa noticed he’d kept flattery to a minimum. Mayhaps he knew her enough that saying such things without a warrant for it would only irritate her. Sansa had learnt the hard way that words were wind and could be used to mislead her.

_Cersei. Littlefinger._

A young Jaime was a different story.

Sansa had gone to the Lannisport sept discreetly and visited the maester’s chamber there, keeping a careful eye to avoid Cersei. And true to Jaime’s word, there had been no lock and the wood was weathered with age; not a recent removal of the lock. She knew he hadn’t been lying to her about the Sweetsleep, but seeing it for herself provided a measure of closure if Sansa could have gotten into that cabinet as easily as she had.

It had been foolish of Sansa to believe her intervention to create distrust between Jaime and Cersei meant Jaime had no longer held those deep feelings for Cersei. Admittedly, Cersei needed to dose her own brother to see them again, but to learn it had happened stung Sansa. She’d believed enough was done and there wouldn’t be another in the recesses of Jaime’s heart, but that had been another mistake.

Regardless, he was too young and Sansa was physically too young for anything beyond friendship to healthily exist at this point. She was in no haste to be married again, but she’d grown to care for Jaime as a close friend. If she wasn’t careful she would lose a friend should she hold a grudge she knew had no grounds for.

He was no good at concealing a lie yet and that cabinet had had no lock. During that conversation, he hadn’t once tried lying to her.

There was at least that.

Shaking off the memories and thoughts, Sansa made sure her bracelet from Elia was secure and placed her hand on Jaime’s arm without prompting, soon being led to the wheelhouse awaiting them.

It was a short and quiet journey to Lannisport Castle, and when they were near the Dining Hall, Jaime opened the door to a chamber and Sansa entered, watching as he entered shortly afterwards.

Jaime was fidgeting nervously, reflecting Sansa’s own emotions about the event, but didn’t begin a conversation. She did it for him.

“We’ll need a show of unity today. They shall tear us apart in that hall given the chance.”

He was surprised she’d spoken first and it was true she’d only replied to comments instead of talking to him properly. It was a little petty.

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked sounding like the boy he was. She often forgot he actually was this age, considering the need to use her older mind around his relatives. “I just want to understand…well, us.”

Sansa didn’t answer immediately and swallowed her pride and hurt from her own mistakes. “I’m not angry, Jaime. Embarrassed, really,” she told him honestly and started weaving a necessary falsehood. As time went on she would need to do that less. “The servants at Casterly Rock talked, so I knew, but I chose not to believe them,” she said, using Lord Tywin’s most likely excuse.

“I only went to the sept to make sure she was okay. Sansa, I didn’t know what would happen,” Jaime explained, and Sansa sat down. She knew the little tricks which made a person more confident; being higher was one of them. It worked like a charm and his tension dropped notably. “I never planned to betray you. It must have hurt reading that letter.”

“It did,” she said needlessly. “But I prefer the hard truth to a lie. The lie hurts worse in the end.” Sansa rose to her feet and went to Jaime. “I understand the intimacy wasn’t your choice, but there had to have been feeling deep down for you to be like that.”

“Only memories. That’s it. That’s all they will be, Sansa.” His words bleed with a plea to be forgiven, and Sansa felt guilty for the way she’d responded to this whole situation. “My words aren’t wind,” he told her. “You’ll see.”

“You tend to keep to your word.”

Her comment lit something like hope inside Jaime and he offered his arm to lead her to the hall. Taking it, Sansa walked beside him and looked at the layout of the Dining Hall once they entered. It outstripped Littlefinger’s winged knights feast in the Vale when he hosted a tourney to find knights to protect Robin Arryn, and this one made Littlefinger’s look like a mere garden lunch.

There were banners of every Great House. Tables lined with red silk. Goblets and cutlery set out. Fires stoked and lively. Members of different houses mingling, including Lord Tywin speaking with what could only be a Baratheon. Steffon, mayhaps.

There was a boy in Arryn colours that looked scarily alike to Harrold Hardying, but Sansa remembered his name from the attendance letter.

_Elbert Arryn, nephew and heir of Jon Arryn. Son of Ronnel Arryn (deceased) and Lady Belmore._

Sansa spotted the Queen of Thorns herself and, by the gods, she looked amazing. The person she was talking to scowled and Sansa had to smother a laugh.

_Queen of Thorns, indeed._

“Sister!”

Sansa whirled around and had to stop herself from gaping.

“Catelyn?" she replied in utter surprise. "I can’t believe it.”

The sisters approached and embraced, and when they broke apart Sansa spotted Elia’s eyes going from one to the other looking for differences.

_And there’s Lord Tywin doing the same._

She couldn’t help feeling smug that any doubt about the relationship between her and Cat’s blood was being utterly smashed in front of so many people.

Cat’s voice broke her thoughts. “You’ve grown, Sansa. Look at the window.”

They were the same height and there was little difference besides Cat’s hips beginning to develop.

“Cat, there’s someone I would like you to meet,” Sansa begun, leading her over to Elia. “Princess of Dorne, Elia Martell.”

Cat dipped into a curtsy. “Princess Elia, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“I could say the same for a sister of Sansa, Lady Catelyn,” Elia replied in kind. The princess looked Sansa in the eyes. “You’re so alike. Almost identical.”

_There’s no way I'm ruining Cat’s day from the start with Lord Tywin._

_And thank you growth spurt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia and Sansa just dominated my mind. Sorry, not sorry.


	24. Lannisport Tourney: Opening feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more headache-inducing family trees please. I'm looking at you, Tyrell, you and your vague ages.
> 
> I got as authentic as I could and BS'd the ones I couldn't get an exact age on.  
> I've done it in order of eldest Great House member, then their spouse and kids, then the next eldest sibling etc.
> 
> Great House guests to the tourney  
> Starks - Eddard (13)  
> Martells – Elia (20) and Oberyn (19)  
> Arryns – Jon (58), Rowena (22), Lady Belmore (31), Elbert (16)  
> Baratheons – Steffon (30), Cassana (27), Robert (14), Stannis (12)  
> Tullys – Brynden (33), Catelyn (12) Sansa (10, nearly 11)  
> Lannisters – Tywin (34). Jaime (9, nearly 10), Kevan (32), Genna (31), Tygett (26), Gerion (21)  
> Targaryens – Aerys (32), Rhaegar (17)  
> Tyrells – Olenna Redwyne Tyrell (48)  
> ...........- Mace Tyrell (20), Alerie Hightower Tyrell (19), Willas Tyrell (5)  
> ...........- Janna Tyrell Fossoway (18), Jon Fossoway (23)  
> ...........- Mina Tyrell Redwyne (17), Paxter Redwyne (31)  
> .  
> Canonically Rowena, Elbert, Cassana and Steffon haven't died yet, and Renly, Garlan, Horas, Hobber aren't conceived yet.

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 1, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Tywin was conversing with Steffon about unnecessary expenditures Aerys had demanded. “I arranged matters as reasonably as possible and now he’s telling me to find a skilled singer at the last moment. If the man I sent is competent, we’ll have one before the King’s patience runs out.”

“You ought to try enjoying something before you die of misery,” a particular woman remarked interrupting his conversation with Steffon Baratheon. “You might find it suits you.” Turning to face Olenna Tyrell, the men listened as she continued. “But it’s pointless persuading you, Lord Tywin. Here we are at the opening feast of your own tourney and you’re talking business.”

Tywin refused to fall for the taunt and desired to silence the woman fourteen years his senior. “Lady Olenna,” he addressed without inflection. “A productive way to spend the morning. Every Great House in one place.”

“You’re missing Rickard Stark, Lord Tywin. An incomplete set, I’m afraid. Just one lord shy; what a shame,” she pointed out, not that he needed her to be telling him that. “But that’s nothing new to you, is it?

She was called the ‘Queen of Thorns’ with good reason. The woman wasn’t afraid to voice her opinion almost to the point of disregard for consequences. Olenna Tyrell considered her son an oaf and told others without any thought concerning the house’s reputation. It made any trade negotiations with House Tyrell a task to be endured and too time-consuming for his liking.

The Dowager Lady of Highgarden also had a habit of demanding prices for Reach produce that he considered extortion, hence sending Kevan and Genna to Riverrun for an alternative.

_One that resulted in a cheaper exchange, but one that could have been cheaper still._

_Considering which…_

“Tell me, Lady Olenna,” Tywin began in retort. “Without the Westerlands purchasing masses of produce from the Reach, how are you coping?” he enquired knowingly. The sudden drop of trade to his lands would have made quite the impact. “The Riverlands supply their own food and ours, which unfortunately leaves you without large customers nearby,” he pointed out to rub salt into the loss.

Produce was a perishable good.

The woman brushed the matter off, but Tywin’s eyes caught the hints of pressure, meaning she was struggling. “No matter where we sell our product to, what matters most is we sell it at a good price,” she vaguely answered and Tywin knew he’d bested her that time.

Steffon took a step toward Lady Olenna. “I doubt our topic was of interest, Lady Olenna. So what brought you to myself and Lord Tywin?” Tywin’s steadfast friend enquired, he disliked her as much as Tywin did.

“Why, your future gooddaughter of course, Lord Tywin,” the Reach woman responded. ”If you don’t chase her off with your dislike for joy first,” she continued with ease and no regret. “However, she’s a confident little thing; full of life. Meeting the other houses without prompting and introducing them to herself and her Martell friends.”

Halfway across the Dining Hall and in the company of the Martells was Lady Sansa, her undeniable sister and his son; the youngest Tully was introducing them all to the Arryns and doing it well apparently, according to their reactions.

_Why does the girl choose to waste her time with that Dornish pair? They, however, do have their uses._

He’d been keeping an eye on her since the beginning of this gathering to see her true colours revealed and as a result witnessed multiple matters.

When the betrothed Tullys saw one another and embraced, it didn’t escape his notice that all of the Dining Hall was watching them discreetly, or not so discreetly, and muttering comments that the story they all had received must be authentic; including Steffon who he knew was no fool, otherwise he wouldn’t associate himself with the man.

Seeing for himself the nearly identical resemblance removed his secret apprehension of wedding the girl to his heir in the future. Her existence suddenly appearing in Westeros at random with no warning had concerned him until now, but there were few Great House daughters in this generation and he wanted to gain a beneficial alliance from Jaime’s marriage. Thus it was necessary of him to secure one of said daughters quickly, despite her questionable origins until now.

Tywin had intended to find proof beyond Genna and Kevan’s words she was a true daughter of Hoster and Minisa Tully.

However, the proof has brought itself to him without Tywin needing to lift a finger on the matter.

Such a physical similarity as this could not be a farce using a cousin, or someone of further distanced blood relations; their near-identical appearance was nigh impossible to be a falsehood. Had they been the same age, many would be inclined to consider the girls to be twins. The only difference was acceptably brighter hair and skin in the younger girl, who had a fairer face.

And the girl had the Tully mentality, for not once had he witnessed the elder sister, Catelyn, looking at his son or himself in disgust. Neither had Blackfish; their paternal uncle. Their maternal great uncle in the Kingsguard was present; however, she hadn’t spoken to him as yet.

His brothers, Tygett and Gerion, held a notable resemblance to one another, but not to the extent of these Tullys. Thus he knew likeness wasn’t limited to twins such as Cersei and Jaime; physical likeness and preferably no further.

_Jaime is the last hope of House Lannister. I do not desire to remarry for the mere sake of more heirs. Heirs that are mine._

_The resemblance doesn’t mean I trust the girl thoughtlessly._

The entire morning, of what of it had passed, Sansa Tully included her sister in all of her minglings. It was clear to him that Lady Sansa was more politically astute while the older sister was merely courteous.

_I can use that to my advantage later._

Tywin had noticed Sansa Tully was skillfully avoiding the Targaryens though. She’d met Ashara Dayne through the Martells, interacted with Eddard Stark soon after, spoken with Genna and Tywin’s brothers, followed by the Arryns; each time had been a direction that moved her away from the royal family’s path.

It was subtly executed but he hadn’t been in court for fourteen years and learnt nothing. Her little strategy suggested she disliked the idea of meeting Aerys II Targaryen and he couldn’t fault her for it.

_You’ll have to meet them eventually, girl. No matter Aerys’ reputation as eccentric and my loathing for him._

It seemed she had a similar disposition to his concerning the Targaryens. Her movements could have been coincidence but he highly doubted it, for she never did anything in Casterly Rock without an intended result. The behaviour was intentional; of that much he was certain.

_All you have left now are your uncles, Tyrells, Baratheons and Targaryens._

“Lady Olenna,” Tywin said, looking at her. “What you are looking at are the results of your high prices,” he pointed out and from the corner of his eye could see Steffon watching the exchange. “One moment of a rose’s greed and it now has no direct mass trade and no worthy betrothed for its heir,” Tywin reminded her smirking at the circumstances. “If you believe for one moment that trout will slip from a lion’s jaw, think again.”

Olenna Tyrell just smiled at him. “Is that so? If that is true, Lord Tywin, you and your marvellously delightful personality best be careful. She might smell the roses and leave otherwise.”

 

SANSA STARK

Sansa heard the tail end of Lady Olenna’s remark about smelling the roses and excused herself from Lady Rowena’s side with who she’d wandered the hall. “I pray you to pardon me, my lady.”

Lady Rowena’s eyes looked over Sansa's shoulder and her expression was one of warning. “Tangle with a rose and you will find thorns, Lady Sansa.”

“Your warning is appreciated, my lady,” Sansa replied and bobbing a curtsy. Lady Rowena Arryn walked back to Lord Jon, casting a glance Sansa’s way once. Turning towards Olenna Tyrell, Sansa casually walked over and greeted them. “My lords, my lady.” She didn’t get to speak beyond that though.

It made Sansa glad that Jaime was in Oberyn’s company.

_Gods, imagine Oberyn getting into this war of words?_

Glad both were away from here Sansa listened to Lady Olenna’s opening sentence. “Graced by the jumped-up trout herself,” the lady said with a deceptive smile. “I was telling Lord Tywin here that he best cheer up around you or he’d lose more than he already has.”

Sansa was going to have fun with this. Lady Olenna was eight and forty; less practised in barbs, but skilled nonetheless. She’s admired the woman’s boldness in King’s Landing, but Sansa being the topic of them made Lady Olenna less appealing in her eyes. “Interesting that roses wanted said trout in the first place, Lady Olenna. What changed your mind? The fact the lion’s den hasn’t torn apart my scales like petals or the trade I salvaged hence costing the Reach much gold?”

There was some sniggering nearby but Sansa didn’t look away from Lady Olenna. From the look of challenge in her eyes, Sansa knew she wasn’t going to back down easily. The hall was quieting and Sansa knew she’d have to be careful from here on.

Even the musicians playing softly had stopped.

“You think I care overmuch about gold?” Lady Olenna questioned with dismissal. “Acting as though you’re a Lannister already.”

Sansa spoke with beguiling sweetness. “Adaption, Lady Olenna. Crops are no longer my currency. Fail to adapt and…you wilt.” Sansa could have said more, but sometimes less is more.

At her last words, there was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, silence or whispers from the others. Lady Olenna glanced in a few directions without having to move her head and seemed trapped. Behind the woman, Sansa could see there was a small circle of space around the two of them.

“Have you adapted to every aspect?” Lady Olenna retorted, hardly veiling her insults. “We can’t pick and choose, dear.”

The crowd inhaled and some eyes were going behind Sansa.

_No doubt to Lord Tywin._

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

Behind a calm mask, he was silently boiling at the embarrassment this girl was on the edge of sentencing House Lannister to by engaging Olenna Tyrell in a war of words. However, for Lady Olenna to resort to implying the shame of Cersei’s public actions was among the lowest of comments he’d ever heard leave the woman’s mouth.

There was nothing he could do without making House Lannister look weak, and with King Aerys present no less.

_Tully better get herself out of this one without creating enemies or she’ll regret her ill-thought out behaviour._

“We, in fact, can pick and choose, kind Lady Olenna,” Lady Sansa replied calmly. “Accept what serves the house’s interest and reject what does not. It’s been done successfully before and can be again," she replied with a pause. "Growing strong, as it were,” she finished using the house words of House Tyrell.

_Well-handled._

It appeared the girl had a quick wit that he hadn’t yet seen. She was not incapable or he wouldn’t have betrothed her to Jaime in the first place. However, without the knowledge this display was giving him, he’d feared she was going to damage what recovery House Lannister obtained by hosting this event.

Olenna Tyrell was looking at him in surprise for a moment before focusing on the girl again.

He took quick note of the hall and saw that their eyes were back on Lady Olenna and his future gooddaughter; not staring at him wondering if he was going to say anything about Lady Olenna’s reference.

Watching Sansa Tully, he observed as she waited for a reply Lady Olenna. From beside him, Genna, who must have joined him at some point, was watching the verbal sparring with a smug expression. “We were right to pursue this girl, Tywin,” she remarked to him quietly. “Not a lion by blood but she’s certainly got claws and chooses when the use them wisely.”

Inside the circle, Lady Olenna didn’t attempt speaking first in the next bout and Lady Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Lion got your tongue, Queen of Thorns?”

There was bated silence as the crowd waited on Lady Olenna’s response; anyone who uttered the moniker to her face often came to regret it. But the woman was just comfortably staring at her.

She was waiting for the girl to grow uncomfortable.

The silence continued on and people were looking from one lady to the other.

“What a pity,” Lady Sansa said sounding disappointed and walked away, triggering unrestrained laughter throughout the hall.

If Steffon ever expressed suspicion that Tywin mildly smiled at Lady Olenna’s sound defeat, Tywin would deny it.

Seeing the wicked-witted, sharp-tongued woman bested by a child was rather satisfying after the amount of irritation Lady Olenna often gave him at court.

The laughter, however, didn’t last long when those nearest to him remembered who he was. They started to quiet down and talk amongst themselves and eventually the Dining Hall was back the way it had been with light conversations between members of the different Great Houses. It was no secret that he despised laughter and this tourney was hosted by him.

Tywin was discussing matters on Aerys’ desire for a singer with the man he’d sent earlier when he was interrupted, once again, by Lady Olenna. “To spar with words requires a mind and that girl, unlike some girls, certainly has one. I expected her to stumble, I’ll be honest. Now, are you going to bring the food or do you mean to starve us to death?” the woman asked him in her favoured subtle insults.

It was clear she was rather humiliated by the laughter earlier, and Tywin didn’t let his enjoyment of the matter show. Instead, he watched in amusement behind a calm face, her poor handling of the position the loss left her in. “When it’s prepared, Lady Olenna. There was a disturbance in the kitchens,” he lied smoothly; he never dealt with such matters.

“Hmm.” The woman walked off back to the cluster of Tyrells and immediate relations on the other side of the Dining Hall.

_What other secret skills do you have, Lady Sansa?_

 

SANSA STARK

Sansa was going to return to the Arryns but stopped herself when she noticed that Elia, but no Oberyn, was conversing with them. Something in their body language told Sansa that it was important, so she left them alone and proceeded to search for Jaime, who she found talking with Oberyn and laughing not far away from Ashara who, to her surprise, was conversing with a nervous Eddard.

“Lady Sansa,” Oberyn said slowly, shaking his head and giving her a slow, quiet applause. “Taking on the rose with more thorns than petals. Well done,” he congratulated her from his seat. “I never knew you had it in you.”

Sansa quickly pushed his hands down and looked out of her periphery for clues of anyone watching. And of course there were, but it didn’t look like there was anything to be concerned about.

Jaime got up from his and came to her side. “He means Lady Olenna, doesn’t he?” he asked politely, and Sansa nodded. “What did she mean by the last part?”

Leading him to a safe place to speak, Sansa turned to him when a passing couple was gone. “She meant the songs about Cersei.” Jaime looked concerned so Sansa explained a little more precisely. “Lannisport and Guest Right,” Sansa specified quietly. “Nothing else, Jaime. There aren’t any others.”

“Right,” he replied looking relieved. “Why would she mention that?”

Sansa held in her sigh, he was young and didn’t know court like her. “She was trying to embarrass House Lannister through me because I’m your betrothed,” she explained to him, watching his expression change as he thought about it.

“Oberyn was telling me there was a lot of doubletalk or something when you talked with her,” he shared with her, offering her a goblet of water which she accepted graciously. “I didn’t understand a lot of what you two were saying.”

“That’s part of it, Jaime. People such as her talk that way in court to trick you into saying something embarrassing,” she said patiently, hoping to teach him a little. Sansa didn’t want him to fall for something such as that. “For example, when she asked if I had adapted to all aspects, she meant had I accepted the shame of Guest Right.”

Jaime looked her in the eyes with an expression of realization. “And if you said yes it would have embarrassed us?” he guessed quietly, which Sansa nodded to as they walked. “So you use different words to mean the same thing?”

She glanced his way and nodded before returning her attention to those around her. “Yes, that is the basics of it.”

“Okay…your part about wilting…,” he said more to himself than Sansa. “Hmm…dying, no that doesn’t…Failing? You said by not changing you would fail?”

Sansa turned to him in surprise when he figured it out for the most part. “Yes, it was also a mocking of her sigil. The rose.”

“Why did you include that?” he asked, looking at her rather perplexed. “It’s not the nicest thing to say. It’s disrespectful.”

She could understand why he was asking these questions; he had no experience with subtle insults and the doubletalk of court. “Think about this one,” she said patiently. “Jumped-up trout. What do you think it means?”

“Trout, well that would mean you,” he answered immediately. “Jumped-up, that’s someone who doesn’t deserve their rank,” he broke it down before turning to her. “She said that to you?” he said in outrage. “When?”

“The first thing that left her lips,” she said, gripping his hand when he changed direction towards the Tyrells. “Jaime, it’s only words. It’s fine.” He stopped resisting for a moment with an expression clearly saying it was not fine. “Most of the time it is a game of wits and subtle insults. Today it was a game and the last person to speak wit didn’t get embarrassed.”

Jaime led the way to his seat at the dais and pulled out Sansa’s for her, tucking it under her before he sat down on the right of her. “I still don’t like it, Sansa,” he told her moodily. “She shouldn’t have called you that.”

It was impossible not to be touched by his defensiveness for her. “I know,” she murmured in agreement. “You know, and so does our families. That’s who matters,” she added, which seemed to calm him. “It probably won’t happen again.”

“You’re sure?”

Sansa smiled and met his eyes. “I can’t promise what she will do, but she did get laughed at by the entire hall.”

Jaime relaxed a little. “I suppose,” he murmured. “But you’re not a jumped-up trout,” he said, taking her hand.

She didn’t pull her hand away. “Thanks, Jaime.”

“Good morrow, my lady,” an older but young male voice said. “I have to admit I didn’t expect you to handle the situation as well as you did,” it complimented.

Looking up from Jaime, she was startled upon seeing the silver-white hair and violet eyes but of an age that could only be Rhaegar Targaryen.

_What interest am I to you?_

She kept her reply short but polite. “Good morrow, My Prince. I don’t believe many people did.” Sansa took a sip of water at the end and tapped the side of the goblet with one finger, summoning a servant from the many here.

The response was prompt and it was a girl, Rosina, in fact.

_Thank the gods._

“Water or wine, my lady?” Rosina offered, bearing a tray with both. “And anything else?”

Sansa pretended to think while touching one piece of cutlery closest to Rosina; a gesture for food at Casterly Rock that only Lord Tywin used to signal the servants. “Water would be lovely,” she replied happily. Refraining from using Rosina’s name was in Sansa’s best interest. If Rhaegar got no wind that she was Sansa’s personal servant, Sansa would feel more at ease.

“As you wish, my lady,” Rosina replied and poured water into the goblet until Sansa lifted a hand. “My Prince? My lord?”

Jaime rejected any beverage from Rosina while Rhaegar Targaryen requested water. Once finished here, she didn’t linger, exchanging trays with another servant who held filled goblets instead of jugs. Rosina went into the crowd in front of them.

Sansa turned her eyes back to Prince Rhaegar and watched him carefully, yet with courtesy as she had done with Daenerys. She refused to let the beauty of their Targaryen appearance to distract her thinking.

He was donned in night-black plate armour, decorated with rubies in the shape of the Targaryen sigil on his chest. Underneath was golden chainmail. None of the opulence, however, swayed Sansa’s mind about what he’d once done.

This was the man who’d brought the seven kingdoms into chaos by stealing Lyanna Stark from Robert Baratheon, willing or not.

This was the man who’d betrayed Elia and left her in the clutches of his mad father with her two children, instead of moving her to at least Dragonstone, if not Sunspear.

Yet he was only a boy six years younger than that rash fool.

Rhaegar Targaryen was the only name Sansa would use in her thoughts. For what man deserves the title of a prince if he would plunge the Seven Kingdoms into war because he couldn’t keep his cock in his breeches?

It would take time until Sansa’s message to Rosina came into effect, meaning she would have to make small talk with a Rhaegar Targaryen of seventeen until then.

Sansa started with the obvious topic and one that shouldn’t anger him. A history as a calm person or not, Sansa wasn’t taking risks with him. “I heard you plan to compete in the tourney, Prince Rhaegar.”

He seemed pleased and smiled in a way that would allure another girl. However, Sansa wasn’t going to fall for such charms. “Indeed, my lady,” he said smoothly, addressing her as though he was of equal or lesser standing. “It’s a shame there will be no archery at this one. Not that Father would have the patience for that category.”

Beside her, Jaime made a comment and broke the illusion of a private conversation. “Jousting and melee alone needed two days. Father and Uncle Kevan were speaking once about how many competitors had sent letters,” Jaime said factually, his hand still residing on Sansa’s.

Glad Jaime was not merely watching, it eased her and she built upon what he’d said. “Knights from all kingdoms are said to be competing,” Sansa added. “This is an important tourney in honour of Prince Viserys. I pray he is well.”

Rhaegar Targaryen smile looked much like Daenerys’ when she got exactly what she wanted. “Indeed he is, my lady. And it is an important tourney,” he agreed, becoming relaxed and looking sure of himself. “Would you grant me the honour of carrying your favour?” he spoke in a manner that clearly meant to charm.

Jaime was going to rise, but Sansa pushed her foot down upon his to avoid trouble. She would deny the Targaryen and truly need to employ a look of regret, not that a drop of regret existed in her intentions. “My Prince,” she began sorrowfully. “I’m afraid another already has my favour and for some time now,” she denied him; silently thanking Oberyn’s fooling around this morning. “It would be wrong of me to take it from him, would it not?”

One of the Kingsguard knights was biting his lip, but Sansa had to focus on the prince in front of her.

He seemed disappointed. “Indeed it would,” the older boy said and dropped his gaze, soon after he was meeting her eyes again. “My lady, you are kind but proud. Any man would be a fool not to see it,” he complimented her. “Would you honour me with a dance?” he asked with his hand out.

_Damn the Targaryen stubbornness! I’ve had enough of it for two lifetimes!_

“My Prince,” Jaime said with forced politeness. “The floor will have many talking people until food is served. Imagine the accidents?”

The prince took the question gracefully and placed his hand back by his side. “Of course, of course. We wouldn’t desire such problems so early.”

She could have kissed Jaime for verbally knocking back Rhaegar Targaryen. Having someone helping her was an honest relief.

“Prince Rhaegar,” she began with an idea that would hopefully shut down this conversation. “If you win both categories of the tourney I shall grant you that dance at the closing feast.”

_Beat him, Oberyn, or I’ll or I’ll. Or I’ll do something!_

The Targaryen smiled and bowed to her. “And I shall, my lady,” he promised, turning away.

“Niece?” said a Kingsguard knight, the sound of steps approaching.

Everyone turned to face the knight in white who spoke, and Sansa, with a swift glance at his face recognised him for who he was. Hints of Mother were in his masculine features.

“Uncle Oswell?”

“You’re related to Ser Oswell Whent?” Rhaegar Targaryen asked in surprise.

_We somewhat look alike. What do you think, Targaryen Twit?_

He was really getting on her nerves.

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

“Such an interesting thing, I just might betroth Rhaegar to her,” Tywin heard a very familiar voice remark behind him. Turning around and concealing his thoughts about Aerys’ antagonizing comment, Tywin remained calm and didn’t rise to the provocation. “She’d be perfect in court. And Tully would never refuse; not that he could if he wanted to.”

Tywin heard the veiled message and knew the king would go through with his comment if he felt overshadowed by Tywin more than he already did. The lord was used to hostilities from Aerys in court at King’s Landing, caused by the prosperous success many accurately credited to Tywin.

It brought about jealousy in King Aerys and the man took measures to annoy Tywin, despite the effects his actions would have on the realm and the royal coffers. Aerys’ aggression towards him would be the only issue he would have to tolerate in order for the tourney to be a success and help House Lannister restore some pride.

“In fact,” the King continued. “Will you look at that? They’re talking already.”

From the angle he was standing, Tywin could see that Prince Rhaegar was at the dais where his and the royal family were to be seated. He would have done differently to Lady Sansa’s plan if the Targaryens were merely another Great House, but there was no choice in the matter and he would have to endure Aerys for the better part of this event.

The prince was on his feet and standing on the opposite side to the seats, his son was in his own seat and in clear view.

Rhaegar was standing in front of Lady Sansa’s seat. His future gooddaughter.

Seeing a handmaid carrying goblets in one hand, Tywin looked to the other hand curious about why she wasn’t holding the tray with both to prevent an incident. It was until he noticed the corner of parchment poking out from her hand that he had intended to scold her for being reckless.

The handmaid approached the King first. “Your Grace, would you care for some wine or water?” she offered with her back to Tywin and held the note away from Aerys’ view. Tywin took it discreetly and glanced at the short message while Aerys’ was distracted handing one of each to a Kingsguard knight for tasting. Insulting as it was, Tywin ignored the behaviour in favour of the letter.

_Present the food? Look at dais._

Initially, he was going to wait until finding a singer, of which he’d had poor luck. And even though he would still be subjected to Aerys’ barbs and insults, Tywin glanced at the dais and saw Lady Sansa’s foot was atop his son’s. The girl was more courtly than his son, and for her to behave in that manner meant Prince Rhaegar’s presence was irritating Jaime.

He would need to separate them.

When the handmaid looked to Tywin and offered him a goblet, he nodded to the girl while taking water and watched as she left towards the doors.

Aerys sneered at the sight of Tywin’s goblet. “Pacing yourself, Lannister? Get in your cups too easily these days?”

He couldn’t retort as he would with members of court but he wasn’t going to have Aerys speak roughshod over him. “I am hosting this tourney to honour your son, Your Grace. A clear mind is necessary, for you do not tolerate half-measures.”

Aerys was about to respond when servants carrying trays were walking to the tables and the mingling crowd made their way to their seats. “Let’s see if this food is a half-measure.”

Despite organising for the best cooks and freshest supplies, Tywin held no doubt that Aerys would find something to be less than perfect about the breaking of fast. Ignoring the matter, as he did when it came to the erratic and insulting manner his king constantly subjected him to; he approached his seat and stood with a goblet in hand to make a toast.

Any other man would have resigned as Hand of the King years ago, however, Tywin needed the influence the position gave him more than ever.

“Welcome to the Lannisport Tourney hosted in honour of Prince Viserys Targaryen,” he began after a moment of silence. “The efforts made to be here by each of you are appreciated. We shall raise our goblets in a toast to our new prince. To Prince Viserys.”

“TO PRINCE VISERYS,” the crowd repeated in unison, raising their goblets and taking a drink.

Tywin looked at all of the Great Houses briefly and closed his speech. “We’ll commence the tourney in two hours, but, for now, enjoy your feast.”

Sitting down and gesturing to each servant when they served enough of their dish onto his plate, Tywin watched as the members of the Great Houses and a few Lesser Houses were talking amicably with their company. It was rather harmonic throughout such as a Martell and Arryn getting along. Brynden Tully was keeping Olenna Tyrell occupied with his own brand of wit; the embarrassed woman minimising attention on herself.

Overall it was a well-arranged seating for the feast, as much as he hated to admit it. To Tywin’s left were his siblings in order of age with Jaime and Lady Sansa between Kevan and himself. To Tywin’s right was King Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen; an unavoidable part of the seating.

He listened with one ear and replied to Aerys when he had to, but conversed with his siblings, son, and the betrothed Tully otherwise.

“Thank you for your help earlier, Jaime,” he heard Lady Sansa murmur quietly to his son.

“Of course, Sansa. I could tell it was bothering you.” Jaime replied back to her.

_At least some matters were improving._

For the rest of the feast, most guests indulged in the fine foods, while those in the hall with the intention of participating kept their consumption low so not to impact on their performance in the tourney.

Once it was evident that the people were finished, he murmured instruction to the servant nearest to him. The result was the servants throughout the hall taking the empty platter trays, and the guests responding to the hint and abandoning the tables and making their way out of the halls for their wheelhouses; Aerys being the first to leave with a few Kingsguard knights.

Competing knights of Great Houses, Kingsguard and princes were gathered and shaking hands as a show of sportsmanship when his son’s voice got his attention. “Do you think he will beat him?”

_Who were they referring to?_

“I pray Viper will, Jaime. I truly don’t want any more encounters with the Crown Prince than entirely necessary.”

Jaime scowled at the mention of Rhaegar Targaryen. “The way he talked to you right in front of me,” his son uttered quietly. “He was trying to charm you or something.”

Being the last to leave presented Tywin with the opportunity of seeing Lady Sansa behaving with her guard down, her’s and Jaime’s backs to him unknowingly. “And asked for my favour right in front of you,” she grumbled, crossing her arms. “That was absolutely rude. Our betrothal is no secret and he was presumptuous enough to think mere words and flattery will sway me. What is it with boys and not taking a 'no' for an answer?”

_Loyal to my son, are you? Time will tell._


	25. Lannisport Tourney: Opening melee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm exploiting a loophole in the knowledge about the Whents. 
> 
> In 281 AC Walter Whent, Lord of Harrenhal, was said to have four sons and one maiden daughter.  
> Minisa wasn't mentioned so I'm making her an older daughter who married and now dead. (I know, tear.)  
> Oswell Whent would therefore have been her uncle, and great uncle to her children. 
> 
> Moving on.

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 1, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

As much as Prince Rhaegar had annoyed Jaime at the opening feast by being so bold with Sansa, he was glad about what happened by the end of the feast. Hadn’t it been for what the prince did things between him and Sansa would probably still be tense.

He knew Sansa was more mature than him, had been from the time they met in Riverrun, but in Lannisport Castle’s dining hall, it was really clear while she talked to the members of other Great Houses. She seemed really comfortable doing it when she introduced him to the Arryns; more comfortable than she had been inside Casterly Rock.

_What made her uncomfortable? It was before Cersei, I know that. Cersei’s trick made Sansa tense as well as uncomfortable._

Something inside told Jaime it was Father.

Around his aunt and uncles, Sansa had this…he didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was there. Something was different any time he saw her with them; something that was missing at meal times.

The few times Father was in the same place as Sansa.

Aunt Genna liked Sansa and spent the most time with his friend, teaching her a Lady of the Rock’s duties. Sansa was his betrothed too, but he saw her as a close friend first.

When Sansa didn’t abandon him after learning the dark truth about his and Cersei’s past, he’d never felt luckier. His fear had been her not wanting to be around him and leave if she knew; if she knew what he and Cersei used to do that a brother and sister should never do. 

For a little while she behaved like a courtly lady and didn’t speak with him unless spoken to, but that seemed to be over now.

Sansa was the only friend he believed was real.

Ever since he started to watch for Cersei’s control of him by being close with him, he’d watched his friends for signs that they too were using him for their gain. It had hurt learning that those other boys were only interested in pleasing House Lannister through him, so he stayed away from his fake friends so they couldn’t use him.

One little letter, the writer unknown, had started the reveal of so many falsehoods.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it at the time, but after seeing proof about Cersei his eyes were open to what else he hadn’t realised.

Jaime now saw things that he would have missed before; Sansa’s little change around his father was one of them.

He knew Sansa; been around her for long enough and often enough that he could spot little clues that told him when she was using her calm mask expression and shielded eyes. Did others see and know the difference? He wasn’t sure, but at the dais, in the Dining Hall, he could tell she was using it around Prince Rhaegar.

Jaime could just tell. If someone ever asked him to explain how he wouldn’t be able to.

By the way she had talked to Prince Rhaegar, it was clear to Jaime that she wanted the prince to leave her alone. To sit there and say nothing was not who Jaime was, so he’d done his best to help Sansa to get Rhaegar Targaryen to go away.

That seemed to really make her happy. Aye, she was annoyed with the prince, but she didn’t appear to be upset with Jaime anymore.

Climbing out of the wheelhouse, Jaime held the door open to Sansa and offered his hand when it was her turn. “Thank you, Jaime,” she said with a smile that was real and reached her eyes.

He smiled back, but it dropped a little once that knight who always stayed close got down from the driver’s seat and joined them. Ser Karyl was here to protect Sansa, however, it annoyed Jaime a little that he couldn’t just be with Sansa sometimes. Uncle Gery had a duty of protecting Sansa too, but he was not as cautious when they were at Casterly Rock; right now though, Jaime could tell his uncle was taking the task more seriously.

Once he was walking towards the stands with Sansa, he heard Uncle Gery get close. “Jaime, it’s your betrothed’s nameday soon. Have you thought of something as a gift?”

The question took him by surprise and he glanced towards Sansa who was speaking with Princess Elia of Dorne. “Uncle Gery, I-I don’t know. She hasn’t said she wants anything.”

His uncle looked thoughtful for a moment. “How much of the Rock has she seen?”

That seemed like an odd question. He couldn’t see how that mattered.

Jaime wasn’t sure, but Sansa had been kept busy with Aunt Genna’s teachings and making dresses in her spare time. “Um, only the main things, I guess. After…you know, we haven’t been together a lot.”

When Aunt Genna told his uncles what had changed and why between him and Sansa, Uncle Gery was as shocked as the rest. However, and unlike Father, Uncle Gery seemed to focus on the fact that Jaime hadn’t done it willingly. His favourite uncle did his best to help Jaime fix things between him and Sansa.

Father had given him a stern talking to about disappointment in the sept and hadn’t mentioned the incident since.

“Hmm,” Uncle Gery said thoughtfully before he turned to Jaime. “If you don’t know what to buy her, don’t buy her anything.”

That really confused him and didn’t sound like something a friend or betrothed should do. “But you just said-“

Uncle Gery put a hand on his shoulder and chuckled. “I didn’t say don’t give her anything; only don’t _buy_ anything.”

_Don’t buy her anything. Father told me not to do anything like that anyway when I was in his solar._

_And Uncle Gery mentioned home._

Looking towards the Rock and seeing its height from this distance made him think of the rides in the Riverlands.

_Riverrun would disappear from view, home never does. Even all the way here in Lannisport._

_Wait-_

He turned to Uncle Gery. “You mean the top?” he guessed, and his uncle grinned. “Why would she want to see that? It’s pretty windy and everything.”

His youngest uncle just laughed, and Jaime was pretty sure from the corner of his eye Father was frowning. Uncle Gery slung an arm around his shoulders while walking a short distance from Sansa. “She won’t care about the walls and towers, nephew. It’s what she can see from them.”

“Land and water?”

His uncle snorted at his short answer. “Yes, Jaime,” he confirmed with an amused grin. “She’ll like it. Trust me on that.”

He met Uncle Gery’s eyes and couldn’t help but frown. “Why would she-“

“Think like a girl, Jaime,” his uncle told him.

“ _What?_ ”

 Uncle Gery squeezed his shoulders and chuckled. “Think like a girl. I know, absurd suggestion, but just do it.” A moment later his uncle spoke again. “Are you?”

Jaime shook his head. How was he supposed to think like a girl? They were confusing. Fussed over their appearance more than boys. The bannerman house daughters were what Uncle Gery called ‘airheads’. “Uncle!” he whispered harshly. “Sansa’s not an airhead!”

That only made his uncle break into laughter that drew Sansa’s attention. Sansa raised an eyebrow and Jaime shook his head, which she nodded to and looked back to the princess. His uncle took a minute before coughing a little and looking at Jaime. “Indeed not, nephew. Your betrothed is a smart one. Smarter than we expected,” he said, his smile twitching. “But she will like going to Peak Tower all the same.”

“You’re sure?” Jaime asked his uncle. “I don’t want to upset her on her nameday. She’s happy again; talks again.”

Uncle Gery patted his shoulder and straightened up. “Positive. Now go on and join your beautiful lass, Jaime.”

Jaime went on ahead and caught up with Sansa, who was speaking with Princess Elia as they walked to the stands for the tourney. Sansa had introduced him to the princess at the opening feast and she seemed to be a close friend with Sansa, but he couldn’t remember Sansa ever knowing the woman grown; only Oberyn, the princess’s younger brother.

Side by side there were stark differences between Sansa and Elia of Dorne. Pale and dark, young and grown, lady and princess, bold and gentle. But the way they talked and acted was as though those differences weren’t even there.

Someone came up to Princess Elia and all three of them stopped. It took a second for Jaime to remember who the man was, Elbert Arryn was sixteen; the age a boy becomes a man. Fitted into his armour and helm on one arm, the heir of the Eyrie smiled to the princess and gave a short bow.

“Princess Elia, I know the moment is late but may I carry your favour in this tourney?” the Arryn asked, dropping to one knee and waited for an answer politely.

Jaime knew from Oberyn that Elia had no betrothed, so there was nothing wrong with the Arryn heir asking for her favour. Had Rhaegar asked Sansa for hers away from Jaime it wouldn’t have mattered, but in front of him was another story. He shook off the memory and watched the princess.

Princess Elia was pretty the way she was; the kind smile and a dress that was clearly meant for a princess. It amused Jaime that the pastel blue and cream were lighter but close to the sigil colours of House Arryn on the knight’s cloak.

_What were the odds?_

The princess didn’t seem to have anything in a hidden pocket to give, but for a second Jaime saw Sansa fiddle with a decoration on the cuff of her own dress.

Princess Elia copied the action and a light blue square revealed itself. She looked surprised and glanced at Sansa with her mouth open a little. Sansa just smiled and turned to face the knight knelt before Elia of Dorne. The woman grown stepped forward and presented the square to Elbert Arryn. “It appears I have a favour to give, Ser Elbert. I pray this token will assist you in the tourney.”

Elbert Arryn took the square and tucked it under the pauldron with some of it clear for people to see. “Thank you, My Princess. It is an honour and good luck to bear.” The knight bowed to Elia again and kissed her hand before he left for the stands.

Elia was watching him go before leading them to the stands. They were close now and the sound of many voices flowed from the enormous stands.

_How did Sansa know that square was there?_

A memory of those colours in Casterly Rock came to mind, and Jaime turned his head to the dress and looking at how fancy it was.

_Sansa made that?_

It was only a strong belief until he heard the princess say words of thanks quietly.

Jaime had to bite his lip while Sansa and Elia were talking.

He wished he had another real friend.

_I mean, I get along with Oberyn, but I want someone my own age._

The time he discovered his friends were fakes trying to get a good reputation with House Lannister, he’d been so angry that he later broke a glass goblet. Uncle Gery came upon the hall and saw the pieces of glass on the floor. Jaime had to explain himself to Uncle Gery, who appeared to understand his rage and didn’t tell Father.

If Father ever saw Jaime spend time with smallfolk instead of nobles, he’d be mad at him. Father never liked the idea of Jaime being seen among smallfolk if he wasn’t buying something. He didn’t seem to like the smallfolk much really. Before leaving for Riverrun, Jaime had gone to Lannisport a few times dressed without any red clothes and talked to smallfolk boys.

They had no idea who he was and played games without doing things just to make Jaime happy. They refused what they didn’t like doing if they felt that way strongly, and sometimes made suggestions of things Jaime had never done.

It had given him an idea of what real friends were like, but Father would never allow it if he ever knew.

_How much I want real friends though._

He was now in the stands and the first melee round had started. There was a good knight among the others and had a light blue sticking out of his pauldron. He knew who it was.

_Ser Elbert_

He watched the way he fought; what techniques were used by him and some Jaime wasn’t familiar with.

The other fighters weren’t really that good.

Jaime’s observation of the melee was interrupted when a familiar silver-white head appeared in front of the princess. Annoyed that _he_ was here, Jaime wanted to leave for a different place in the stands, but they were completely full with some of the smallfolk standing while they watched.

He’d seen the list of competitors in the melee round and there were many; at the bottom of the page was a sentence saying the winner of each would compete tomorrow. It was a tough rule, but with the number of knights here he understood why.

Unfortunately forced to witness this prince asking another person for their favour, he took personal glee in Princess Elia refusing him because she too had already given hers to another knight. Rhaegar Targaryen stayed for a moment longer than what would be normal, looking at the princess until a Kingsguard knight reminded the prince it was his round in the melee.

Before leaving, the prince said one last thing. “And Lady Sansa. Two beauties in one place. The gods have blessed me.”

_Creep._

 

OSWELL WHENT

Now that the prince was with the other competitors for this melee round, but Sers Gwayne Gaunt and Arthur Dayne guarding their prince from the sides of the field, Oswell left Prince Rhaegar in their care and departed for the stands where his king and the Hand would be watching.

He was almost at his post when his lord commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, came over while the king was guarded by Prince Lewyn Martell, Ser Harlan Grandison, and Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Oswell,” the Lord Commander spoke and stopped in Oswell’s path. A bell gonged and cheers in the crowd erupted when the second melee began. “You’re off duty until the jousting rounds begin. I’ve organised our rotation such that we can each speak to any relations while here,” Ser Gerold explained over the din. “I had the opportunity at the opening feast, Lewyn will have his when his nephew isn’t jousting. Arthur’s is on the morrow; Gwayne is arranged for that afternoon. Harlan’s and Barristan’s families are absent.”

Oswell bowed his head. “Much appreciated, Lord Commander.”

His first king, Aegon V, was a king that experienced little peacetime. 236 AC was the year Oswell had become a member of the Kingsguard; it was also the year of the Fourth Blackfyre rebellion. Following the rebellion, King Aegon V spent much of his time combatting uprisings, including three times in the Westerlands due to inept leadership by Tytos Lannister.

His second king, Jaehaerys II, reigned for only three years. 259-262 AC.

His third king, Aerys II, kept his Kingsguard close and forbade ravens to their families, consequently withholding them from their families unless said family travelled to King’s Landing. Not all families could make it, and the Whents were one such family.

Three kings and this was Oswell’s first time of meeting family since the beginning of his service to the Kingsguard at seventeen.

Walter, his older brother, had kept him informed of the happenings for House Whent and its members through the years. Walter’s eldest daughter, Minisa, was the closest living Whent by blood to Lannisport and he’d hoped to meet her here, but she had been absent at the feast.

All of the Kingsguard were cut off from the happenings of their families and only learnt what trickled into court as gossip and verbally delivered news. King Aerys II had decreed at the start of his reign that he wouldn’t have a Kingsguard distracted by ravens with the affairs of what was no longer a concern to them; meaning their houses.

Six moons ago, his brother, Walter, had sent a rider that his sixth and youngest child, a second daughter, had died unexpectedly. Despite never meeting any new family, Oswell still privately mourned the loss and prayed his brother would face no further grief.

Restricted to the king’s side and King’s Landing, Oswell could only offer his condolences to his brother. Oswell had no memory of Walter’s children, including Minisa, who were now grown ages and had their own families.

Five moons ago, word washed over Westeros that Minisa and her husband had hidden away a daughter in Harrenhal with sickly health since the girl was brought into the world. But the girl had finally prevailed and returned home to Riverrun. Oswell hadn’t been sure it was true but was now glad he’d kept his mouth shut.

Oswell hadn’t received word about his house since then and prayed Walter’s sons and daughter, and their families would fare better than their youngest sister.

He mayhaps is the uncle of them, but Oswell was a man they didn’t know and never met.

So he reserved the title of ‘niece’ and ‘nephew’ for their children. He’d been sceptical that the chance to use it would arise, but alas it did.

Minisa’s two eldest daughters at the opening feast were the first and only nieces he’d ever met.

Catelyn and Sansa Tully.

Catelyn was a sweet and courteous girl that he’d had little chance to speak to, considering he was assigned to follow and protect Prince Rhaegar at the time. Sansa was something else; pleasant company to others from what he’d seen, the backbone and wit of a courtly veteran, and the courtesies necessary to deny requests made by those of higher rank; of royalty.

Prince Rhaegar’s request for Sansa’s favour in front of her betrothed truly had been a foolish decision, but Sansa rebuked the idea without offending the prince.

It was an impressive feat.

Shortly after Prince Rhaegar turned away to leave the dais, Oswell had taken his chance to meet one of his nieces properly, yet Prince Rhaegar dominated the conversation and ruined what Oswell had hoped for.

She hadn’t been impressed and his niece, great-niece technically, calmly deflected the prince until the food was brought out and the call for a toast to honour Prince Viserys. Oswell hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to her again since Prince Rhaegar’s oblivious interruption of something so important to the Whent Kingsguard knight.

_The prince has his head and harp in the clouds too often to see reality at times._

If the duties of being in the Kingsguard did not include the condition of needing to be requested to provide any counsel, Oswell would have given counsel to the prince long ago; back in the Dining Hall of Lannisport Castle, in fact. However, it was not the Kingsguard’s place to give unrequested counsel.

The prince had now been rejected by two pretty highborns when he’d requested their favour for the tourney. Smallfolk in flocks were eager to offer theirs, but the prince was only interested in getting the favour of a beautiful girl that mattered politically.

It was an embarrassment for the prince that the Dornish princess had already given hers to another man. However, Oswell silently felt that it was the gods’ punishment to Rhaegar for being a fool at the feast with a betrothed girl, Sansa Tully; his niece.

He agreed with the gods’ decision.

His fondness for the prince had dropped since that little stunt.

After the second rejection, this one far more public no less, the Crown Prince had whined that he seemed to be missing the chance of getting a favour from any beautiful girl that mattered. Rhaegar had intended to ask the Dornish princess after Sansa Tully for ‘she was a beautiful woman with a radiant smile and dressed the part of a princess’, to the prince’s exact words. But lo-and-behold, she’d already given hers to another competitor when asked.

The prince mayhaps be skilled with the sword and harp, but he was not in tune with the concept of humility. In King’s Landing, the heir to the Iron Throne had expressed a desire to be kinder to the people than his father. In Oswell’s opinion, Rhaegar Targaryen was doing a shoddy job of it by rejecting all of the smallfolk favours offered here.

These people would remember that.

He could of at least accepted one and be done with whatever nonsense was in his head at the moment.

Prince Rhaegar could play his harp and sing on the streets of King’s Landing and give his earnings to the nearest minstrel all he wanted, but being inconsistent to the smallfolk would not help him achieve his goal.

Oswell cleared his mind on the matter when Gerold turned away to returned to the king’s side.

Not lingering near the king’s seat, the Whent Kingsguard knight started his search for his nieces.

They were the first members of his family, besides his brother, that he would have spoken to in forty years.

 

JAIME LANNISTER

The melee elimination rounds were starting and finishing so fast.

Ser Elbert Arryn won his.

The prince won his.

Uncle Gery.

Uncle Tyg.

Ser Arthur Dayne.

Ser Gwayne Gaunt.

Uncle Kevan.

Red Viper with his partisan was crazy and defeated Jorah Mormont, a good fighter but not a knight, knocking the man out of the competition.

Bronze Yohn.

Steffon Baratheon.

Blackfish.

Jaime couldn’t take his eyes off the melees as the better men bested their opponents like they were nothing. Sometimes two good ones had to fight it out to the end, but not very often. Ser Arthur Dayne made it look like he was dancing; one man after the other that went against him was quickly defeated.

It looked as easy as breathing for the Dornish Kingsguard knight.

It was amazing.

_I was to be as good as him one day, no- even better._

The round with Brynden Tully had gone better than he’d expected. Looking to Sansa and Catelyn beside him, Uncle Gery guarding Sansa again and Uncle Tyg somewhere else now, Jaime saw they were proud of their uncle, but in their company was a member of the Kingsguard.

_Not again…_

He looked around for that creep but didn’t spot the silver hair anywhere near them.

_Then why..?_

Jaime turned his attention back to the Tully sisters and noticed both them and the Kingsguard member had Whent features.

_Oh._

Unlike Prince Rhaegar, Jaime didn’t interrupt the conversation between family this time and listened to them as they talked.

Ser Oswell’s white helmet with a black bat on it sat in his lap while he spoke. “You’re both lovely girls. Any woman would be proud to be your mother,” he complimented them and glanced around them. “I was hoping to meet her. Is she nearby?”

_What? How could he not know?_

Catelyn shifted in her place on the bench and took Sansa’s hand, who intertwined their fingers in response. “M-Mother,” she struggled to say before turning to Sansa with a look Jaime could see over Sansa’s shoulder.

Ser Oswell didn’t ask for a complete answer and looked grim at the news. He looked at the girls’ faces and sighed. “Saying the Kingsguard vows are nothing compared to seeing what you gave up.”

That comment had Jaime’s attention and sounded ominous, but Sansa answered Ser Oswell since Catelyn couldn’t. “Mother gave life to twin boys a few moons ago, but it costed her own life that day,” she managed but clearly in pain. He took Sansa’s spare hand with his own. “Oswell and Joseth, she named them.”

Jaime knew how much it hurt to lose a mother and it was very brave of Sansa to talk about it. He wasn’t going to interrupt them but made sure Sansa knew he was here if she needed him with a squeeze of her hand.

The knight looked surprised and his eyes had become a little shiny after Sansa said their names. “Minisa named one of her sons after me?” Ser Oswell asked, sounding like he felt honoured but couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We never had the chance to meet, your mother and I.”

_Never?_

Catelyn turned from Sansa’s shoulder and looked to Ser Oswell. “Not once?” she asked, which the man nodded to. “Why?”

He wanted to know that too, it seemed harsh. If Jaime ever asked about it, he knew that Father would look at him like he was a fool as Father’s heir. He would definitely get a lecture that the future of House Lannister came before personal glory and honour.

Ser Oswell looked to the sisters with regret plainly on his face. “I’m part of the Kingsguard. I guard the king, Catelyn, when I’m on duty. It’s a lifetime appointment with no chances to see family unless there’s a tourney,” he explained to her sadly.

Catelyn nodded and sighed. “I didn’t know it was that strict.”

There was an expression that looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. “King Aegon the fifth didn’t forbid writing letters, but uprisings and the Blackfyre Rebellion kept myself and my sworn brothers occupied trying to keep the peace and protect our king.”

_Is he saying that Aerys does forbid letters?_

Taking a look towards King Aerys, Jaime looked at the four Kingsguard knights with the man and spotted the uncle Oberyn talked about sometimes. He was doing his duty in the Kingsguard, but his eyes would linger on Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn when looking in their direction.

All boys dreamed of becoming knights, that much was true for Jaime too. The honour and protection for the people from those that would hurt and steal from the weak and innocent. Boys also dreamed about joining the Kingsguard to bring honour to their families; he remembered the way the bannermen sons would talk about wanting to be a Kingsguard knight one day.

To have their names in the White Book with all their imagined deeds, the pride for their families being a Kingsguard knight would bring them. Their names to never be forgotten once written in the official record of those who protected their king’s life.

Some knights were good enough that there would be songs sung about them by smallfolk and nobles. Ser Gerold Hightower the White Bull and Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold were two such knights of the Kingsguard.

Jaime wouldn’t deny dreaming about being one after picking up a sword for the first time and learning how to fight from Ser Dameon, the Casterly Rock Master-at-arms. The man had said he was a natural with the sword.

He knew what the vows would demand of a knight in the Kingsguard. No lands, no children or wives. There was more in the vows than just that, but at the time he hadn’t understood completely what a man gave up by being on the Kingsguard. Ser Oswell’s talk about his service sounded like he was unhappy never seeing Sansa’s mother and probably not her uncles either.

_It didn’t really seem worth it._

_Aye, it is protecting the king and leading his armies, but giving up everything else to do it?_

_Father has the Lannister army. Someone has to lead them one day._

Ser Oswell turned towards Jaime which caught his attention. “I’ve heard you are quite the sword yourself, Lord Jaime. The many of the Kingsguard aren’t as young as we used to be. There’s no point dancing around the fact,” he commented, looking at Jaime with a watching look. “We’ll need fresh blood by the time you’re a man.”

_What does he want me to say?_

_Uncle Gery’s behind us too._

The idea was a dream before he knew what it would mean for him. “I’m my father’s heir, Ser Oswell,” he said politely. “The future Warden of the Westerlands.”

The knight’s lip twitched and Ser Oswell nodded at the answer. “I hope you do a better job than your grandfather. However, Lord Tywin doesn’t strike me as a man who would allow his successor to be the same as his father.”

Jaime knew the stories. “No, Ser Oswell. He isn’t.”

At a different sound of the bell, Ser Oswell rose to his feet. “Between us, Lord Jaime, good answer,” he said and hugged Catelyn and Sansa. “I was glad to have the chance to meet you girls. I know you will do well.” Before leaving, the knight turned back to Jaime one last time. “Look after her, Lord Jaime.”

“I will.”

He watched as the Kingsguard knight left, walking back towards the seat of the king and trading places with Prince Lewyn Martell. Looking at the white cloaks on their shoulders, Jaime thought about all of the talks between noble boys about joining the Kingsguard. However, watching Ser Oswell then looking at Prince Lewyn embracing Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia not far away, he wondered how many knights in the Kingsguard regretted it like Ser Oswell.

Jaime knew how a knight was selected for the Kingsguard. Of course he did, before discovering the truth about Cersei, back when he only cared about her and knighthood, learning all about what it meant to be a knight; including the Kingsguard.

The king had the final say and denying his summons to join the Kingsguard was considered treason.

Jaime wanted to earn knighthood, but he hoped to never become a knight of the Kingsguard.

Ser Oswell wasn’t happy and had hinted it was better not being one.

_No letters between family. I’d never hear from Tyrion._

Neither did he forget that Sansa had once explained how Jaime could be both a knight and the Warden of the West. They hadn’t been betrothed at the time, but Jaime was glad he knew he could still be a knight without having to follow the strict rules of the Kingsguard.

Glancing at Sansa, he saw her watching him curiously before she spoke. “He seemed so depressed, didn’t he?”

“He did, I don’t want to be like that. I hope the king never chooses me to be a member.”

Something in Sansa changed and she seemed to smile just a little bit more.


	26. Lannisport Tourney: Opening Joust

SANSA STARK

_Day 1, 3rd Moon, 276 AC_

 

Watching the people transform the field in preparation for the jousts, Sansa was conversing with Cat who reminded Sansa of herself when she was naïve to the truth of the world.

She shouldn’t let such memories colour her experience in the stands. There was no sun hitting her eyes, the event was going smoothly and never grew boring while being an audience to the knights and other skilled fighters, all using different weapons below in the melee until just now.

The day was lovely. She was with her sister and Jaime at a tourney, talking about who they thought would win each round. Goblets of water were available. It was nice; pleasant. She couldn’t have asked for a better day for a tourney. Sansa sighed and wrapped an arm around Cat’s shoulders; she wasn’t too old to do it yet.

Her sister looked at her curiously. “Sansa,” she said, putting her arm around Sansa’s waist. “We’ve missed you at Riverrun. Father, Uncle, me, Lysa, the boys.”

“I feel the same,” Sansa admitted, giving Catelyn a small smile. Her eyes drifted to Casterly Rock for a moment. “My place is here now, but every day I wonder what it’s like back home. Lysa, Edmure growing and talking, Oswell and Joseth; infants when I left. They still are now,” she reminisced, her thumb subconsciously running back and forth on Cat’s shoulder.

Cat smiled and looked pointedly at Sansa’s thumb. Realising what she was doing, Sansa stopped and felt a little sheepish. “They’d gotten used to your visits in the mornings. The twins are fussy at that time, but they’re calming down,” Cat told her before squeezing her waist. “We all remember you, even the twins.”

Inside, she had been a little afraid of that very thing. It was a relief her worry was unfounded. “Thank you, Cat. How’s Father? I didn’t expect him to send you.”

“Neither did I,” her sister divulged. “Uncle Brynden had left days before when Father made the decision. It was a good idea though, wasn’t it?” she asked rhetorically. “Before the feast, I heard people muttering doubts about us, but the looks on their faces when we were together.” Cat shared a smile with her before she continued. “But we’re together, and that’s what’s most important. Family-”

“Duty,” Sansa chimed.

“Honour,” they said together.

Sansa glanced towards Lord Eddard and a Lannisport Lannister. “I’ll be roaring and you’ll be preparing for winter in a few years, won’t we?”

“And Stranger take me if we don’t recognise each other.” Catelyn smiled at the light jape and hugged her. “I’ve missed you, Sansa.”

“As have I.”

Her sister looked at Sansa, her lip quirking for a second. “Father would be proud.”

“And of you,” Sansa added. “Uncle Oswell said Mother would be proud of both of us.” Their eyes met and Sansa could see that Cat missed Mother as much as she did. “She would want us to enjoy today… did you give your favour to anyone?”

“Yes,” Cat agreed but didn’t say who and looking at Sansa with a clear message.

Rolling her eyes, Sansa looked around the stands and didn’t spot her champion. Turning her attention to the field, she saw Oberyn dressed in plate armour and mounting his horse. She refrained from pointing or being seen doing so. “Down there on the black steed, red mane and tail. Oberyn. I gave it as a jape this morning. And yours?”

“Uncle Brynden,” Cat supplied. “It felt like the right thing.”

Sansa nodded and thought the matter over. Both herself and Cat were betrothed, but Brandon Stark wasn’t here and for Catelyn to have given her favour to another boy or a young man could be used as pitch for the fire of controversy, if someone was desperate to cause trouble. Giving it to their uncle was a safe wager and couldn’t be misconstrued as a Cat having a disloyal and wandering eye.

Aye, Sansa had given hers to Prince Oberyn, a young man, however, it was known by Ser Kevan and, more than likely, Lord Tywin that the Dornish prince was a friend of both Sansa and Jaime. Jaime’s presence here at the tourney and Sansa staying close to Jaime would weaken any claims of Sansa or her father changing their minds about the betrothal to House Lannister.

Only Cat, Elia, and Jaime knew the Dornish prince had it. She doubted they would tell anyone.

_I’m most likely overthinking about this, but a little caution does no harm._

Cat pulled her out of her thoughts. “Sansa, it’s about to start.”

_GONG_

And they were off.

Oberyn looked steady, lance not wavering.

Both lances struck the opponent and broke, but neither was unhorsed.

Squires gave them another lance.

_GONG!_

The crowd waited as they charged again.

Oberyn spurred his horse, becoming faster.

Both struck.

Unknown opponent fell.

Sansa, Jaime and Cat cheered at the victory.

_Two consecutive times and he’ll win._

_GONG!_

Charged.

Struck.

One unhorsed.

“Yes!” crowed Jaime and clapping eagerly.

_He’s jousting tomorrow!_

Sansa felt her lips quirk. “Jaime.” He looked to her, a bit curious. “What about that wager of yours?”

He shrugged nonplussed. “If Oberyn knocks a royal on his arse, it’s worth it.”

Ser Gerion broke into laughter behind them and beside her, Cat coughed behind her hand. Sansa’s lips twitched and Jaime’s laugh brought out a laugh of her own.

Glancing down at the field, Sansa saw the next pair preparing to compete while the prominent pieces of broken lance were removed. Oberyn shook hands with the unhorsed man and left, the lent squire trailing him to the shade and helping Oberyn remove his plate armour. Once free of it, Oberyn climbed the stairs and joined Elia and Prince Lewyn, both congratulating him.

It was their turn to spent time with a Kingsguard family member and Sansa had no intention of ruining it for them. When Rhaegar ruined hers with Uncle Oswell the first time, the act had felt like an insult; as though the interaction between family was of little value and easily done. But not with a relative in the Kingsguard.

She glanced along the stands and saw the Baratheons with Lord Eddard not far away from her. Turning to Jaime, Sansa tilted her head in their direction. “Do you know the Baratheons? I have yet to meet them and Lord Steffon was alongside your father during the opening feast.”

Jaime looked towards the house of discussion and shook his head. “No, I don’t. They live on the other side of Westeros. We’ve never met.”

Getting to her feet she looked to Cat and Jaime. “What better opportunity than the tourney? They may not live nearby, but being on good terms with any Great House is a good thing.”

Jaime glanced over towards the Baratheons again and shrugged. “I’ll introduce myself at tonight’s feast,” Jaime replied, remaining where he was. The ‘gong’ of the bell triggered a din of chatter from the crowd, and Sansa saw his point. Mayhaps he had the right of it to wait until later.

“It is rather loud. Mayhaps the feast is a better choice,” she conceded and sat down again.

“That’s why I said later,” Jaime commented with his eyes on the field. “The tourney is too exciting anyway. There’s Ser Arthur Dayne. They say he’s the best at jousting.” Had Jaime mentioned the knight being the youngest in the Kingsguard, she would have been concerned after Uncle Oswell sharing his story with her, Jaime and Cat. “He or Ser Barristan Selmy will win the joust if Oberyn loses.”

Jaime had been right in his comment of waiting for the feast. It was rather loud for any good introductions. Especially while a kingsguard with reputed skill was competing.

The tourney was a perfect opportunity to make connections; however, Sansa might have been a little overeager concerning the matter. There was still one more day worth of the tourney before all of the Great Houses parted ways and returned home to their castles. She was in no hurry to meet the Tyrells since she’d met the Tyrells in King’s Landing and knew their game.

Considering that family, Sansa was going to have to be careful around the Queen of Thorns. Sansa’s deceptive appearance of eleven had worked to her advantage during their first bout, but she doubted it would again.

Olenna Tyrell would likely be a pain in Sansa’s side until the event concluded. Losing a battle of wits to an alleged child of eleven no doubt stung the older woman.

Sansa hadn’t met the Mad King and was in no haste to do so. Rhaegar Targaryen hadn’t introduced himself, but the Valyrian features did that for him earlier.

That left getting to know the Baratheons. Last time, she’d only seen King Robert before his death. She had no knowledge of Steffon and only comments in court about Stannis. Aye, Robert and Stannis were boys with Robert at fourteen, and Stannis at twelve. However, she would prefer to know their personalities and priorities well so she wouldn’t be caught off guard.

Robert had pursued revenge for Lyanna Stark and that was all she really knew about him, apart from his penchant for bedding woman. Stannis fought for the throne when the legitimacy of Joffrey was brought into question and considered duty to be important to the point of going north instead.

But that was all she knew of them, and it wasn’t enough to draw conclusions on what they would do in lesser situations.

She didn’t have the knowledge surrounding the deaths of Steffon and his wife, Cassana; whether they would live or die this time was not something she could guess, making it a priority to familiarize herself with them in case they survive what happened last time.

Turning her attention to the jousting, Sansa saw the kingsguard knock his opponent clean off his horse and ride to the other side of the rail.

Remounted and holding a lance, the Westerman didn’t look optimistic but positioned himself in the saddled for another bout.

Ser Arthur Dayne was receiving a new lance and readied himself.

_GONG!_

Sansa watched as the kingsguard surged forward on his horse.

Westerman knocked clean from the saddle.

Ser Arthur Dayne was through to tomorrow’s rounds.

“Yes!” cried Jaime, clapping at splendid the performance of the Dornish knight. “So many are saying he’ll win the tourney tomorrow.”

_Gods, Oberyn, you need a destrier for tomorrow; something fast on short distances._

Sand steeds were endurance horses.

“Do you think Oberyn has a chance?” she asked Jaime curiously.

He looked to her with a thoughtful expression. “He needs a charger or something. Sand steeds aren’t the best for winning a joust,” he told her, looking sure of his answer.

Elia caught Sansa’s eyes and gestured for her to come over enthusiastically.

Sansa rose to her feet and requested Ser Karyl to stay with Cat. Not tarrying, Sansa weaved her way between people until she was with the Martells. “Oberyn, you did it.”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Of course, sweet Sansa. I wouldn’t have done less,” Oberyn replied smoothly, eyes darting to a piece of ribbon poking out from the cuff of his tunic. The very hand that had held hers before he released his hold. “I also have thirty Dragons to win.”

Sansa smothered her laughed and kept her tone light. “A destrier tomorrow wouldn’t go astray.”

“Aye,” he said, glancing down at the field where the victorious kingsguard was leaving. “I’ll be kissing the dirt and lose my wager if I don’t find one.”

A man next to Elia and donned in Kingsguard uniform merely shook his head with an amused smile. “I’ve heard rumours about you, nephew, and they appear to be true.”

Elia sensed the cue as had Sansa. “Sansa, this is my uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell, a member of the Kingsguard,” she introduced pleasantly. “And uncle, this is Lady Sansa Tully. A friend of Oberyn’s, and a good friend of mine.”

Prince Lewyn bowed to Sansa with a small smile. “A pleasure, Lady Tully. Both my niece and nephew have had nothing but nice things to say about you.”

“But not more than true I pray, My Prince,” Sansa replied, which caused the brother and sister to laugh.

“More than true?” Oberyn repeated incredulously. “Sansa, hadn’t I met you I wouldn’t be at this tourney. I’d be at Sunspear and so would Elia.”

It didn’t make complete sense to Sansa why such a thing - being away from his brother and mother no less - was a good thing. “Oberyn, I understand what you’re telling me, but what are you not saying?”

Elia took both of Sansa’s hands, drawing her complete attention. “This tourney means more than a mere tourney for me, Sansa.”

Sansa had an inkling of ideas but didn’t voice them. “I made dresses, Elia,” Sansa reasoned, looking between the siblings. “That’s all I really did.”

“No,” Elia objected, bringing Sansa’s hands close. “That’s not all.” Sansa just looked at Elia’s smile and the shine in her eyes. “You made me believe in myself. Ashara always said I was beautiful in my own way, but I never saw it. You showed me, Sansa. I’m starting to believe it and at the feast- Oberyn and I could never have foreseen it.”

Elia sounded so happy, but not telling Sansa was pushing the bounds of her patience.

_Please, Elia, by the gods, just tell me._

“I didn’t have an answer for them until asking my uncle for permission on my mother’s behalf,” Elia continued with a happy tear down her cheek. “Uncle Lewyn has told them he approves for House Martell.” Elia paused for a second. "The story about Uncle Lewyn's role was a farce though; before sailing Mother told me she trusted I could make a wise decision if an offer came. I only needed time to learn more about the Arryns and the Vale, hence my uncle."

_Does this mean-?_

“Sansa,” Elia said with another tear down her cheek. “I’m to marry Elbert Arryn.”

Sansa was stunned. Had she caused this? Then her memory of Harry the Heir snuck up and so did her worries about how Elia would be treated. Harrold Hardying hadn’t been a kind man or kept to one bed.

Elia took her into a hug and Sansa could feel the moisture of a tear touch her hair. “You gave me confidence. You introduce us to the Arryns. Elbert Arryn is now my betrothed and we’re marrying at the Eyrie after the tourney,” Elia told her tearfully. “You gave me so much.”

Her friend seemed so happy, and Sansa had to make sure Elia’s marriage would be one without grief. She looked to Oberyn. “Oberyn, is he a good man?”

Oberyn was surprised but smiled. “Jon Arryn raised Elbert because Ronnell, Elbert Arryn’s father, died around the time his son was brought into the world. We’ve talked and I’d say Elbert is a more confident Eddard Stark, if that helps, Sansa. She’ll be treated well since Lord Arryn is practically raising Stark. Besides, I’ll be in the Eyrie as well. And I _am_ the Red Viper.”

Elia laughed as she released Sansa from the hug, but not Sansa’s hands. “You’re so sweet,” she commented, rubbing Sansa’s knuckles. “Will you and Jaime come? Will you come to my wedding?”

Sansa was numb with shock and couldn’t answer.

“We will,” Jaime’s voice replied. “I’ll talk my father into letting us go.”

She turned around to see Jaime beside Prince Lewyn. A quick look to their earlier seats and Sansa spotted Uncle Brynden with Cat. “I’d love to, but how will you?” Sansa asked in disbelief. “You know what he’s like, Jaime, and better than I do.”

“Well, insulting two Great Houses isn’t smart, is it?” Jaime replied with a brief smirk.

Sansa was surprised by his answer, but built upon it to see whether Jaime was saying what she thought he was. “And with you as his heir, he’d want you to be able to think about the consequences of actions or inaction.”

Jaime nodded to what she’d said. “He’d have to let us go if he doesn’t want to insult Dorne and the Vale. It would make things hard for the Westerlands later if he sends nobody,” he added confidently, rendering Sansa speechless. “What? I can be smart.”

Oberyn laughed at the comment.

Rising to her feet, Sansa enveloped one hand in both of hers. “Jaime-I didn’t mean,” she stammered before taking a breath and trying again. “He’ll think it’s a scheme I created and asked you to say,” she told him without giving the detail of why. That would only cause trouble.

“He’ll know it’s not,” Gerion Lannister reassured, making Sansa jump in surprise. She’d grown so used to him quietly being in her shadow. “I heard the words from your own mouth, Nephew. My brother will know, I’ll make sure of it,” the youngest Lannister brother promised. “It’s wise to go.”

Sansa turned to Elia after a brief glance at Princes Lewyn and Oberyn. “If Lord Tywin approves, we will come to your wedding, Elia. I’d say ‘Yes’ right now if I could,” she explained before changing to a lighter topic. “I can send letters from Casterly Rock tonight to the ruling Princess Mariah and Prince Doran, if you like?”

Elia’s smile from telling Sansa the news was still full of spirit. “I would, Sansa. It will make things a lot easier the sooner they know. Although we will have a slower journey than them,” the princess remarked before smiling to Sansa. “I have no doubt you want to see your own family again too. We’ll be passing through Riverrun, so mayhaps a stop along the way?”

The idea of seeing her family again together and in full health made Sansa’s eyes become moist. “Elia…”

A tear escaped and Elia wiped it away. “Shh, you’re a Tully by blood. We _will_ be staying there for a time.”

Sansa was so choked up by the compassion from Elia and her intent to give Sansa something she desperately desired since Lord Tywin’s subtle threat. Her speech was a mess. “I…I do. You…you have no idea. This-“

Elia gave her shoulders a squeeze and a gentle smile. “Hush,” the princess whispered. “Family is precious to Tullys. I think I know a little about precious things.”

She had never expected a chance such as this to arise and was finding it difficult to speak. “Thank you,” she struggled to say.

Feeling a little conscious of what Gerion Lannister would have seen, Sansa saw he was still close by as per his duty instead of making his way to Lord Tywin, but she wasn’t sure what to think of it. Jaime followed her gazed and looked at her.

“Hey,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his. “Uncle Gery isn’t a gossip. It’ll be fine.”

The gesture was appreciated and she tried not to think about the upcoming discussion too much. Ser Gerion would tell Lord Tywin at the feast tonight; of that much she was sure.

Elia was looking to the jousters intently and clear restraining from biting her lip.

Looking down to the field, Sansa saw one man she couldn’t identify but the other had Elia’s favour. She glanced Elia’s way and saw her watching her betrothed in the field.

_GONG!_

Elbert’s opponent’s lance wavering as they charged along the rail.

Ser Elbert’s strike knocked the man clear out of his saddle.

Once at the end and the opponent was remounted with a new lance, the Arryn heir wheeled around to the other side and poised to joust again, new lance in hand.

_GONG!_

Valeman and Riverman charged one another.

The Valeman remained seated.

The Riverman did not.

It was clear who the winner of this round was.

Elia’s betrothed would be going up against the best tomorrow.

 

AERYS TARGARYEN

Seated on the King’s Platform that gave a clear view of the field, Aerys looked to Lannister.

His Hand was his servant, but it reached Aerys long ago that people almost considered Lannister as the King of Westeros, merely without a crown.

The culprit that began the rumour, the captain of Lannister’s personal guard, paid for it with his tongue and hot pincers. Never to utter a word of any sort again.

And despite everything that little cunt of a daughter had done to Lannister’s bloody legacy, the tourney’s crowd had cheered louder for Lannister than for him. As though Aerys was of little matter and did not deserve their loyalty that belonged to the King of Westeros. A title and position that was his by birthright and to no other house for nearly three hundred years.

“Lannister,” he started, drawing the attention of his Hand. “You call this a tourney to honour my son? The melee was as boring as taking a piss and the joust isn’t much better. You shit gold apparently, yet it looks like the competitors are smallfolk, not knights and fighters.”

Lannister, the prideful cunt, turned to him with calm. “The elimination rounds will weed out the weak and slow, Your Grace. Victors, such as the competing kingsguards and skilled knights, will face one another tomorrow. I recall Ser Arthur Dayne proved his worth at a tourney, his name was unknown prior to it.”

_He had to mention the bloody Kingsguard, didn’t he?_

Ser Arthur Dayne was not a knight to be challenged lightly. He was of a calibre to Gerold Hightower with a sword and undeniably an invaluable asset to his Kingsguard.

With little to say without looking the fool, Aerys said nothing.

Instead, Aerys glanced down at the new jousting pair when he noticed a certain girl of golden hair, but dressed in smallfolk clothes, lurking in the shadows where most knights entered the field. The wench created humiliation for Lannister in court, which pleased Aerys to no end. In the stands above her, was Lannister’s heir; Aerys knew then he wasn’t mistaken.

He couldn't resist the opportunity.

“Hiding your girl in plain sight, Tywin? Gods, you’re a lackwit to do it,” he remarked, utterly indulging in the situation. “But a new song will please me. Or mayhaps ‘Mad Lioness’ at lunch?”

Lannister looked to him with his emotions concealed; pretending to have everything well and good as always. “Your Grace?” his hand spoke but Aerys didn’t answer.

If the brat did something stupid and embarrassed his Hand, Aerys wasn’t going to stand in the way of it happening. So he watched Lannister search the stands with his eyes, and the moment those green eyes landed on the little shit Aerys was sure they widened by a fraction.

_You can’t hide from me, Lannister. I know what goes through that bloated head of yours._

The King just sat and watched what would happen next. Clearly, Tywin Lannister hadn’t intended for his daughter to be present. Lannister’s power and influence at court were irritating to Aerys, and the lack of control of his daughter in Lannisport, practically the pretentious man’s home, made Aerys curious and smug.

“Marbrand,” Lannister said with his thrice-damned unwavering composure. A boy of nine approached the Hand of the King, looking ready to do Lannister’s bidding. “Ser Gerion. Trade.”

_What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?_

“Aye, my lord,” the boy said and left, soon out of Aerys’ sight against the crowd.

Aerys anticipated something more happening, however, his waiting was for nought. Lannister did nothing more and appeared to be watching the joust from where he stood beside the seat for the king. So Aerys decided to entertain himself. “Sending a boy to deal with her, you fool? A man with self-respect would have done it himself.”

Lannister didn’t react, but the posture was nearly as still as stone.

Oh, yes. After all these years Aerys knew Lannister hated anything implying a comparison to his father, Tytos.

_According to the Small Council, Tytos was a useless fuck._

SANSA STARK

The crowd was cheering as Ser Barristan Selmy was wheeling his horse around for the second joust. Looking to the dirt where his opponent was getting up, Sansa was pretty sure the man was worse for wear compared to most unhorsed jousters.

Beside her and Jaime were Robert Baratheon and Lord Eddard, Catelyn and Ashara standing between the two boys; all of them waiting for the second joust.

Lord Robert had absolutely cheered when Ser Barristan’s opponent was knocked clean off his horse. The poor man nearly hit the dirt head first, but Lord Robert didn’t seem to mind that fact at all. Eddard appeared to be more caring about the man than his friend.

“Think he’ll be fine?” Eddard asked quietly.

Lord Robert shrugged with his hand on Ashara’s far shoulder, who didn’t seem pleased about it. “Who cares? They’re here for it. Can’t compete and not expect to get knocked about.”

Ashara took a step away and Lord Robert’s hand fell to his side. “I pray you to pardon me, my lords,” she said and turned to Eddard. “I hope he’s alright, Ned. See you at the feast,” Ashara commented and took her leave. Cat, in response, moved to the outside of the two boys and over to Eddard’s other side.

Eddard looked at Lord Robert and the other boy merely shrugged. “Guess she not interested in a good joust.” Sansa watched the best friend of the person who had once been her father. “Since when do girls call you ‘Ned’? She’s the first.”

“Lady Ashara asked,” he put simply. “And she’s a lady, Robert. Dornish or not,” Eddard said more seriously.

Lord Robert looked at Eddard for a moment before laughing deeply. “The gods have finally blessed you!” he crowed. “You like the girl! And can talk to her, Ned. Normally you’re a buffoon around them.”

That wasn’t entirely true, to Sansa’s knowledge, but did talking her really count?

Looking at Lord Robert, Sansa saw the appearance that he was said to have had before becoming king and growing fat. Tall and muscular, but seeing his disregard for the expected courtesies and respect towards a lady reminded her of his older self. Ashara mayhaps not have spoken up about Lord Robert touching her, but she clearly hadn’t welcomed it.

“Fuck, Ned. Why did you have to like that one? It’s not like you’ve known-“ Lord Robert paused and opened his mouth for a moment. “The ravens,” he said in realization.

Eddard nodded and looked to the field as the jousters charged.

Ser Barristan unhorsed his opponent with no struggle at all.

Eddard looked to Lord Robert and spoke. The din was making it hard work to hear. “My father’s suggestion.”

“Ahh, a high lord being a high lord and all that shite,” the Baratheon commented offhandedly. “But you like her. She’d be a beauty in bed no doubt.”

“Robert!”

Lord Robert only shrugged at Eddard’s indignation. “You and your sensibilities, Ned,” he remarked with a dismissive wave. “The day you sheath your sword you’ll wish you’d done it sooner.”

Sansa ceased eavesdropping after that. There was no need to know the details of Lord Robert’s nocturnal activities, and gods was he relaxed about talking publicly of them.

_How could a man like Jon Arryn raise two boys with such contrast?_

Walking away through the excited crowd, Sansa was offered a goblet of water, and sat in some shade and saw Jaime do the same.

He turned to her looking excited. “Ser Barristan Semly or Ser Arthur Dayne? They’re jousting tomorrow, and so is Oberyn,” Jaime began and taking a sip. “Think he’s got a chance?”

The talk of jousting was a welcome distraction and Sansa thought about it. “If he can get a destrier,” Sansa answered, subconsciously fiddling with the four beads on her bracelet. “He had a pretty steady grip on the lance.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Jaime commented, drawing Sansa’s full attention. “I’ll lend mine to Oberyn.”

“You have one?” she asked in disbelief, a destrier was the most majestic and largest breed of horse in Westeros.

“Lannister,” Jaime said like it was the most obvious reason. “Of course I do. Not my idea, but I do have one. It’s five years old.”

Sansa glanced towards Casterly Rock and shook her head ruefully. “It sounds like a promising mount for tomorrow,” she remarked with a smile. _However, a destrier for a boy?_ “Jaime? How much practice have you had with such a horse? Ignoring the cost, I’m surprised you have that kind of horse.”

Jaime merely shrugged from where he sat. “Not much. The horse master exercises it every day though. I’ve ridden it…twenty times? I got it last year on the fourth moon as a nameday present. Uncle Tyg’s gift.”

There was the sound of running feet and both of them looked in the direction it was coming from. A boy with copper, should-length hair was dashing towards them but slowed to a stop just shy of reaching them. Sansa didn’t recognise him, but it seemed that Jaime did.

“You’re my father’s page,” he said factually. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, my lord. The name’s Addam. Addam Marbrand.”

The name didn’t register in any of Sansa’s memories, so she let the conversation play out between the boys.

Jaime held out his hand. “’Jaime’ is fine,” he offered with hesitation when Addam shook his hand. “Now, what’s going on?”

“Lord Tywin sent me to tell Ser Gerion a word; Trade. I have no idea what that means, but Ser Gerion told me to find you.” At the mention of that combination, Sansa had felt a chill. There was only one reason for it. Ser Gerion was her Lannister knight as a precaution against Cersei, and much occurred during the trade negotiations at Riverrun.

Sansa rose to her feet and abandoned her goblet. “Where is he?” she asked, believing that remaining without Ser Gerion was unwise. He must have lost them in the excited crowd when Ser Barristan Selmy was jousting. She looked back and saw that Jaime was on his feet too but confused. “Jaime, we must go back.” He clearly wondered why. “Your sister is here.”

Immediately Jaime looked grim and nodded to the page, who blinked in confusion before taking the lead back to Jaime’s uncle. When they reached Ser Gerion, Sansa could see they were positioned at a vantage point of the stands.

“Uncle Gery?” Jaime said once the page was gone. “How is she here?”

The favourite uncle became solemn. “I don’t know, Jaime, Sansa, but you two aren’t wandering off again today. Understood?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison.

When the final jousting pair had a determined winner, Sansa and Jaime followed Ser Karyl back to the wheelhouse with Ser Gerion behind them.

A little later once their wheelhouse reached Lannisport Castle, Jaime led Sansa to a chamber and closed the door. “I’m sorry, Sansa. It was a really good day until that message.”

“It is not your fault, Jaime,” Sansa whispered, taking a hand and giving it a light squeeze. “And I had a good day. Nothing bad happened, yes?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but after a moment nodded to her. “Yes.”

“I’d wager you’re hungry?” she guessed, opening the door and making for the Dining Hall.

“Starved.”

“Boys…”

“Hey!”

Sansa just chuckled and he had a mock-scowl.

She wasn’t sure if her ploy to distract Jaime worked entirely, but she hoped it alleviated the self-blame concerning Cersei. It really wasn’t his fault.

Looking across the hall for Elia, Sansa found her seated with the Arryns next to Elbert.

Elia looked up and her eyes shone with fondness when she gave a subtle wave of her hand to Sansa.

_She’s so happy…_

_And she plans to delay her wedding so I can see my family again._

Sansa smiled back.


	27. Never Ending Day

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 1, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

The first day of the tourney was over; elimination rounds were complete and the midday feast that followed had been civil.

However, his day hadn’t been as straightforward as he would have preferred.

The king sighted his daughter, Cersei, at the tourney before prodding at the everlasting embarrassment Tywin had grown up with at Casterly Rock. The hostilities Aerys was displaying in recent moons grew to a height that one would consider beyond a reasonable extent to tolerate.

Yet his day had only just begun despite that the sun was positioned near the Sunset Sea horizon.

While Tywin had observed the happenings of his lavish tourney, his brother, Kevan, tended to the situation concerning Cersei; removing the girl from plain sight to Casterly Rock to contain her while Gerion was watching over Lady Sansa and his son in the stands.

Upon the feast’s conclusion, Kevan approached him and they spoke privately once within the walls of Casterly Rock, for there was no doubt the king hadn't been the only one to have seen and recognised his daughter. For now, she was restricted within a cell.

He had no intention of concessions and gave her what he felt she deserved.

_How far my daughter has fallen. Joanna’s daughter._

Hiding her in Westeros twice over proved to be a mistake. The sept hadn’t improved the matter before he resorted to having her to join the Silent Sisters. Neither worked and resulted in circumstances he wouldn’t have foreseen. One was resolved, but the other occurred in broad daylight with numerous people and houses present; how many recognised Cersei at the tourney was unknown to him.

The Silent Sisters was not a keeper of prisoners; merely a subgroup of the Faith that remained from sight and primarily prepared the bodies of the deceased. Many highborn believed the women’s absence of speech was an inability to do so; they were wrong. The septon informed him it was a vow being exercised and nothing more.

He couldn’t conceal Cersei here and neither would Tywin become a kinslayer.

Matters were not progressing in his favour of late. He wanted a wife for his son that was worthy of becoming the next Lady of Casterly Rock and the Tully betrothal had been a hasty decision out of need. Tywin didn’t want a bannerman’s daughter for his son, and an alliance through marriage to another kingdom, a neighbouring kingdom, was the ultimate choice.

It would improve the status of House Lannister.

When the girl discovered the incestuous affections between his twins, Tywin believed he could keep the witted beauty at Casterly Rock under the pretext of learning her future duties from Genna. Such an arrangement would protect the reputation of House Lannister for a time until the prolonged stay would raise the suspicion of Hoster Tully.

He no longer had the option of keeping her here now and for two reasons.

Lady Sansa’s attendance of the tourney came with the condition that Cersei was kept well away from Lord Hoster’s daughter. If Brynden Tully spotted Cersei during the tourney today, the man would not hesitate and take Lady Sansa back to Riverrun. The Tullys would face no large loss if Hoster broke the betrothal and arranged for a marriage with House Baratheon. Their heir, Robert Baratheon, had no intended as yet.

Great House daughters were becoming a scarce commodity and finding a high ranked replacement for his son would be difficult. The opposite was true for the Tullys. The girl made her mark at the opening feast and considered a valuable lady by Steffon and more. A new betrothed for her would not be a struggle.

Aerys would make her Prince Rhaegar’s betrothed. The king was certainly spiteful enough.

Tywin would lose the girl that could amend the humiliation and held dangerous knowledge pertaining to House Lannister.

The second reason was a recent development.

It was more than apparent that, the gods knew the reason, his son and Lady Sansa were in a close friendship with House Martell. A house on the verge of joining with House Arryn, and to not predict a wedding invitation for his son and his betrothed was an ignorant concept.

He could refuse to permit his son to attend, but to insult the Arryns was less than ideal.

The Vale’s economic strength, like the Reach and Riverlands, was in the growth of produce and the Arryns had a military power twice of what Tywin could muster; currently, the realm was at peace but peace never lasted perpetually.

The Tullys, with the Vale as a direct neighbour, no doubt would be unmovable in regards to Lady Sansa attending the trivial matter of a wedding.

The Westerlands were dependent on the ore of gold and silver with some fisheries in Lannisport, on Fair Isle, and farming on what land was fertile. The West was rich but not enough food production to support itself without touching the larders of Lannisport and Casterly Rock if the farms were attacked. Currently, the farms weren’t producing very good crops and created the need for trade.

In short, rejecting an invitation to a wedding wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause in the long term.

And one way or another, Lady Sansa would be out from under his gaze and the secret of the twins at her mercy.

No matter how much he desired differently.

Standing on a balcony that overlooked Lannisport, Tywin heard the sound of another man’s footsteps approaching and turned to see who it was. Coming up to stand beside him, Steffon had a curious expression when he looked at Tywin, hands on the rail but body part turned towards him.

“The betrothal between your son and the Lady Sansa has a few of us curious, Tywin,” Steffon remarked seriously. “I didn’t dare address this near the king or in public; are you with us? Lords Rickard, Hoster, Jon and I?”

Tywin knew what Steffon was leading to; their discussions at the end of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Marriages between five Great Houses.

Such marriages were typically avoided and rare unless there was the purpose of sealing peace or an alliance.

Otherwise, the warden of a land married their children to those of their bannermen. It was of paramount importance to a warden to maintain having the most political influence within their domain through marriages to their bannermen.

Tywin turned to Steffon and observed him for a moment. “Aegon V’s reforms were weakening a warden’s power. The man is dead, along with his reforms. However, the political pressure of five kingdoms to oppose a foolish Targaryen notion without drastic measures isn’t a lightly dismissed matter,” Tywin replied and watched as Steffon turned to look at Lannisport nodding.

The warden of the Stormlands grasped the railing lightly. “We were unmarried men without children when the war ended; possible marriages unknown and undecided. The topic was readdressed by the others once heirs and daughters survived infancy, but not yourself when your twins did,” Steffon remarked in observation.

There was a reason he hadn’t, Tywin’s ambition was to marry his daughter to Prince Rhaegar and counsel him when the prince took the throne. That plan was ashes now. Only an oblivious bannerman would marry their son to his daughter now.

Tywin looked at Steffon for a moment. “The Martells weren’t involved in the discussion,” he pointed out stiffly. “There’s no purpose for Arryn to be joining with a house that’s not to be trusted.”

Steffon spread his hands along the railing. “Arryn has only one heir, Tywin, and struggling to produce a surviving son. One male heir; the son of a dead brother. Lord Jon saw an opportunity to ensure House Arryn lives on and took it.” Tywin’s court companion looked to him. “Targaryens and Martells haven’t wed for generations despite their agreement due to Targaryen incest; a slight against the Martells.”

Tywin steeled himself at the memory of his twins and the threat to Sansa Tully about silence. However, the concern seemed for nought when Steffon had no hints of disgust towards him. “How does that make Martells trustworthy, Steffon?”

The Baratheon turned his head at Tywin’s comment. “It doesn’t. Arryn believes a marriage from outside the Vale would improve chances for his house’s survival. Jon married the daughters of two bannermen and no sons or daughters to show for it. Marriage from outside his borders for his nephew was the logical choice. Only insane men repeatedly do the same and expect different results.”

“Are the Martells aware of our fold?”

Steffon shook his head. “No. That discussion was a ‘need to know’ basis. My son is unaware Stark and I will wed him to Stark’s daughter eventually and why. Tully’s a loyal man and hasn’t breathed a word to even his brother according to Arryn. Stark started this scheme which suggests he wouldn’t have spoken a word to his children or risk it being leaked."

The man beside him paused and looked to Tywin.

“I know you rejected the Martells’ proposal. However, the Martells have strongly befriended your son and his betrothed. I have no intention of breaking the pact and informing the Dornish, but open animosity, whatever your reasons, will create unnecessary strain for your son when he succeeds you.”

No lord or lady, other than his siblings, would dare to speak openly against him unless bid so by Aerys. Steffon was the only one Tywin would tolerate a wisp of a warning from, and the man had just toed that line.

Tywin turned away from the balcony and went back inside, Steffon not far behind him. “My reasons are my own,” he told Steffon. “The Martells are a risk to this alliance and foolish to involve. It will take only one word from them to Aerys to ruin everything if they learn of it.”

“Which they won’t. However, there is something more immediate you should know.”

Tywin looked at Steffon.

“I overheard Brynden Tully telling his middle niece he was taking her back to Riverrun immediately after the tourney,” Steffon divulged, looking thoughtful. “Lady Sansa argued against it; quite fiercely for a lady, but Blackfish mentioned the refusal to tolerate a broken agreement.”

_Curse those fools that failed to keep Cersei in that sept!_

With none of his rage showing outwardly, Tywin nodded his head. “A useful warning, Steffon,” he said and the warden of the Stormlands took his leave.

Tywin did not linger in Casterly Rock and immediately rode to Lannisport. The lackwits of the sept were endangering his position in a group of wardens that could oppose royal decrees without having to lift a finger or mobilise an army. If he lost the betrothal to the girl, he would lose his position considering Steffon and Stark intended to join their houses.

The remaining Great House girl was also a Tully. If Tully broke the betrothal in response to the breached agreement he wouldn’t consent to marry Lady Lysa to Jaime.

_I have no choice._

_And the power has turned without the slip of a girl realising it. I hope she never does._

It took little time before Tywin entered the septon’s chamber and found the man tidying the desk.

Tywin closed the door and took care not to show his anger physically. His voice was another matter. “Cersei was in your care and to remain here,” he reminded the man firmly and took a breath. “Yet, earlier today she was sighted at the tourney despite allegedly becoming a silent sister.” The septon was frowning but not overly cowed.

“Lord Lannister, the sept is not a glorified dungeon. It is a place of prayer and service to the Seven,” the man replied with an expression of dread. “Lady Cersei refused to say the vows and neither can she be forced. A messenger came and his note said you needed her. We complied, naturally.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes and the septon stiffen a little. “One day. That was all I required. One day, but too burdensome of a task apparently.”

Septon looked confused. “My lord, we don’t have your daughter.”

“I know you don’t. She’s contained and will _not_ be seen at the tourney again,” Tywin told the man with seeping anger. “I sent no such messenger. Describe him.”

“Young, roughly seven or eight; black hair; slim and grey-green eyes.”

_Not Marbrand and I’ve never had a messenger of that description._

“Was there a signature?” he asked testily.

Septon swallowed. “No, my lord.”

Staring at the septon, Tywin exhaled through his nose. “You’ve been fooled, Septon, and it will cost you dearly. I’m withdrawing the funding from House Lannister as recompense until I say otherwise.” Leaving no chance for the Septon to speak, Tywin departed from the chamber and soon after the sept.

_Cersei’s scene of being dragged into the sept would have spread throughout Lannisport. Someone wanted to spite me and did this._

Once back within his solar and taking the chance of some silence, Tywin was disappointed for he heard a knock on the door. “Enter.” His eyes fell on the sight of his son and youngest brother, Gerion. Gerion, who was supposed to be guarding Lady Sansa. “What news, Gerion? Why are you here and away from your duty?”

“None, Tywin,” Gerion replied but without the typical biting retort. “However, I am needed here for this.”

_What **now**?_

Turning to his son, Tywin observed Jaime and noticed he was a little nervous and uncomfortable but stood with a straight back. “Father, Princess Elia invited Sansa and me to come to her wedding at the Eyrie. She’s to marry Ser Elbert Arryn,” his son said with a voice that became steady.

_Sansa Tully’s persuaded him to do this._

Tywin knew his son, he liked to believe so at least, and travelling to the Vale and back for a wedding did not sound like his son. “And for what reason would you?” he carefully questioned his son. “Sumner Crakehall has agreed for you to be one of his squires this year. A year earlier.” It had been a precautionary suggestion he’d made to the vassal lord during the midday feast after spotting his daughter at the tourney.

Squiring his son a year earlier was no problem to Crakehall and Tywin wanted Jaime separate from Cersei.

His children will not act like Targaryens again.

Jaime’s eyes became wide at the news and there was evident conflict within the boy. Tywin knew how badly his son wanted to earn knighthood, the master-at-arms kept him informed of his son’s dedication towards swordsmanship.

Jaime looked at him with a torn expression but knew from the past that Tywin hated repeating himself. He watched as his son took a breath and met his eyes. “Could I do both, Father?” he asked desperately, but Tywin didn’t answer. “I want to be a knight, I do. I really want to. But, I,” Jaime struggled to phrase his answer.

Tywin didn’t interrupt his son. It was necessary to see how his son dealt with the two options before him.

Early knighthood. Or an important wedding.

Gerion intervened. “Tywin, this is cruel. Tygett bought him a destrier last year; the mount of a knight. You know as well as I do, and everyone else in this damn castle, that your son aspires to be a knight.”

Jaime shook his head free of thought and took a quick breath. “But I’m your heir, Father. I want to be a knight, but I’m your heir,” his son said sounding crushed when he spoke.

This peaked Tywin’s interest and he became more attentive to the discussion. “You desire knighthood, Jaime, and care little about lordship. Did Lady Sansa tell you to speak to me?”

“No!” Jaime immediately answered eyes widen and he looked fearful. “No. I mean no, Father. It was my idea.”

_I find that difficult to believe. The logical journey to the Vale passes through Riverrun. Very convenient._

Tywin picked up a dry quill and relaxed in his seat, fiddling with it lazily while Jaime was staring at him; eyes desperate, edging tearful, but no lie was in them. “Say I believe you, Jaime. Tell me why you would go to the Vale if you weren’t offered the position of a squire.”

It was clear his son was upset while under the impression it was one choice or the other. “If I wasn’t given this chance-,” Jaime blinked and fisted his hands. “If I wasn’t given this chance, I would go so I wouldn’t insult two Great Houses. Insulting them would make enemies.”

That was the right frame of mind for a lord, but he wanted to see how deep this decision sat in his son’s mind.

“And now?”

Jaime’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“Tywin!” Gerion snapped. “That’s enough! By the Seven, he’s a boy!”

“Silence, Gerion, or leave,” he retorted. His brother stayed.

It was clear Jaime was reaching his limit of emotional control from the Tywin’s questions.

Tywin repeated himself. “And now, Jaime?”

Jaime swallowed and met his eyes; the gaze was pained. His son looked away. “I would go anyway,” he murmured with a dejected expression. “…and start being a squire next year.”

“Good,” Tywin remarked, satisfied to see his son could make the hard choices when called upon. A moment later he witnessed a tear slide down the boy’s cheek. “Tell a servant to pack for travel and ceremony.”

Jaime left silently.

Gerion, who he never had a positive relationship with, came up and smacked his hands on the desk as he lent forward to whisper. “You heartless cunt. It was his idea and his reasons; now you’re punishing him for it. Lady Sansa had nothing to do with it; in fact, she spoke against asking you and I quote ‘He’ll think it’s a scheme I created and asked you to say’.”

_And I did. That girl knows the inner workings of a courtly mind too well._

His youngest brother rarely had outbursts like this.  “Jaime has a capable mind, you prick,” Gerion hissed angrily. “Whether Crakehall was horseshit or a true offer, that was too far for a boy. Too far, Tywin!”

Tywin got to his feet. “He’s my son, Gerion. I will raise him as I see fit.” Gerion was looking at him with loathing. “Counsel from a woman is well and good, but being their puppet is another matter.”

“He bloody well wasn’t a puppet just now, was he?” his brother remarked testily. “He went against her advice and asked you because he felt it was the right thing to do. That’s not being a puppet!” Gerion shouted angrily.

“Yes,” Tywin replied coolly. “My son will be the Lord of Casterly Rock. He knows what the priority is.”

Gerion stepped back and looked enraged enough to punch him. “Had he been my son I would have been proud; not make him regret the choice of duty over want. All you said was ‘Good’?! At least have the bloody conscience to lie and say there wasn’t an offer, regardless whether it was true or not.”

Tywin knew at that moment that Gerion would tell Jaime what the truth was if he knew. However, he wanted his son to learn life never gave you everything you wanted; at least not immediately. He would send a raven to Riverrun when Jaime was due to arrive there. It was arranged that his son would begin later in a few moons.

“It was a necessary lesson,” Tywin said, sitting down and tending to letters.

“You cruel fuck.”

_If it means House Lannister is strong and successful in the long-term then so be it._

Gerion stormed out of Tywin’s solar and left in the same direction as Jaime.

“Milord?” a servant spoke a minute or so after. Tywin looked up and stared at the servant expectantly. “Ser Brynden Tully is here to see you.”

Tywin refrained from the outward sigh and gestured with his hand for the servant to send him in.

Blackfish came into the solar and made himself comfortable in the seat directly across from Tywin with only the desk between them. The man’s displeasure was quite obvious, but Tywin had experience in dealing with displeased men, namely Aerys Targaryen, who has become more eccentric and insecure every year.

“If you take Tullys for blind fools, Tywin Lannister, you’re sadly mistaken. I can see what’s happening in the grand scheme of things. Girls of high status are strangely popular. Kingdoms marrying kingdoms, and not their own vassals,” Blackfish commented casually before bringing his seat forward a little. “Whatever plan my brother is concocting, one thing is clear; he has choices. You? Not so much.”

“I am well aware,” Tywin replied in his voice of business. He didn’t have time for riddles despite being in his own castle.

“Many boys are in need of a betrothed, Lord Tywin. Robert and Stannis Baratheon; Oberyn Martell; Rhaegar Targaryen; or Eddard Stark if we were so inclined,” he listed before leaning back in his seat. “But how many girls are there that a sane man would count? Lyanna Stark, and my youngest niece, Lysa Tully. Five boys, two girls.”

Tywin simply looked at Blackfish and deliberately waited before he spoke. “What other brilliant insights have you brought me today?”

“I saw your daughter at the tourney. First breach; it was agreed she was to be absent. A pair of smallfolk clothes don’t do the task, I’m afraid,” Blackfish pointed out before leaning forward. “I heard about the sept in Lannisport. In your own writing, Lady Cersei was to reside with the Lannisport Lannisters. Second breach, but I’ll excuse that one; she was still away from my niece in that sept.”

From the way that Brynden Tully spoke it was explicitly clear the man had no knowledge of the intended Stark/Baratheon marriage of Lyanna and Robert. However, that was not a fact that was in Tywin’s favour; it, in fact, made matters worse. Only Lysa Tully was without a planned betrothed and four people contending for her hand.

“You can threaten not to purchase our crop to try and persuade us not to break the betrothal, the Riverlands don’t care; we have the North to sell to. Break the trade and there’s no real loss on our part,” Brynden Tully told him confidently and at ease. “But what does that mean for you? Hmm? Crawling back to Olenna Tyrell’s prices; prices the woman would no doubt raise if you approached her. And you wanted to avoid the original ones in the first place.”

Blackfish had Tywin’s situation well drawn; there was a lack of girls to betroth his son to if Hoster Tully broke the one to his daughter, Lady Sansa. If Tywin breached the conditions of Sansa’s stay again, there was the possibility Hoster Tully wouldn’t respond well to the slight, break the betrothal to Jaime and spurn any offer for the other daughter, Lady Lysa.

The matter of crops was accurately surmised. Tywin had crop traders on all of his borders and couldn't produce enough for his own lands. He had to choose; Tully or Tyrell. By the gods would Olenna take joy in exploiting his disadvantage should the Tullys refuse to sell to him.

Easily put, slight the Tullys again and he would have many problems to resolve.

“Earlier today, Elia Martell approached me and invited my family to the wedding of herself and Elbert Arryn in the Vale. A direct neighbour to the Riverlands and only a lackwit of a lord would dare refuse to attend,” Blackfish said with a steady gaze and a dare hidden behind it. “At the end of this tourney both of my nieces are leaving with me,” he said before rising from his seat and approaching the door but paused there.

“Whether Sansa returns to Casterly Rock and your son, however, is in your hands now, Lord Tywin. From what I’ve seen, my niece could very well become the next Queen of Westeros,” he remarked solemnly. “Rhaegar Targaryen has certainly taken a liking to her, and King Aerys is running out of choices.”

Brynden Tully left the solar without looking back and Genna entered only a moment later.

_Can’t I have a moment of peace?_

“Did I just see the Blackfish storming off from here?” Genna enquired with a glass of wine in hand and a parchment in the other.

“Yes, he saw Cersei at the tourney-“

Genna put her goblet down and tossed the read parchment in the fire. “That bloody girl of yours, Tywin! Even the Silent Sisters didn’t work. The whole Westerlands know about Lady Sansa’s betrothal to Jaime, and now the bannermen are making betrothals amongst themselves in response. There will be no Westerland or Great House daughter left for Jaime at this rate.”

Tywin abandoned the letters and rose from his seat. “This situation has not escaped my notice, Genna,” he said irritably.

Of course, he’d been keeping note of what his vassal lords were doing and the tightening position of House Lannister’s future was clear to him.

Genna walked over to him and sighed. “I apologise, Tywin, this must be more frustrating for you than it is for me,” she spoke sympathetically and picked up her goblet. “The Lady Sansa is the pick of the crop for Jaime. I expected there to be a perpetual strain between the pair after the discovery in the sept, but matters have recovered and grow stronger for it.”

Tywin had noticed that. “And it appears the girl hasn’t divulged that fact to the Tullys.”

His sister took a sip and shook her head in disbelief. “Thank the gods.”

_Thank her care for her family rather._

Genna took the seat that Blackfish had vacated only minutes ago. “We don’t have many options left concerning Cersei; hiding her without using a cell doesn’t work and I dare not believe you’d become a kinslayer.”

“No,” he replied with certainty. Tywin didn’t believe he would be able to bring himself to murder one of his flesh and blood; one of Joanna’s twins.

But he needed to do something to preserve House Lannister. To allow Cersei to roam Westeros in any capacity was a risk he was not willing to take. All of Cersei’s recent actions had been nothing but destructive towards House Lannister and currently threatening to gift him with more problems.

His earlier impulsive choice of locking her in the dungeons and him in possession of the only key hadn’t felt more necessary than it did now.

“Tywin,” Genna said. “Essos is the last resort if we absolutely have to.” His sister paced in the solar looking troubled. “Where did we go wrong, Tywin? Cersei was going to become Queen of Westeros, and was a determined and confident girl.” That description reminded him of Blackfish’s remark about Lady Sansa becoming the queen. “But somewhere down the line there was friction between Jaime and Cersei and the girl has been a disaster since.” Genna sat down again and put her goblet down. “Jaime is becoming a gentleman and on the way to liege lord when the time comes.”

There was no point in pining over the loss of Cersei’s potential. It was a waste of time and did nothing to further the future. Looking at the key on his belt with the rest of them, Tywin made his decision.

“Cersei will be given the necessities and remain in her cell. No one else has a key, ensuring that the Tullys don’t see Cersei tomorrow,” he told his sister as she listened. “Brynden Tully gave a less than subtle suggestion that Lady Sansa will be betrothed to another if Cersei is seen near Lady Sansa.”

From her seat, Genna looked at him with an expression that clearly meant they needed something else. “For now it should be sufficient, but that isn’t a permanent solution.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow. It could work well; Cersei would be confined to one place and unable to embarrass House Lannister any further, he wouldn’t become a kinslayer from doing so.

Then he recalled one crucial fact about any castle.

_The servants talk._

There would be no safe haven within Casterly Rock to conceal Cersei and protect House Lannister from the volatile girl’s behaviour.

_Would it be considered kinslaying if I had Cersei sailed to Slaver’s Bay?_

But he would not do that. She was a Lannister and that meant something. He would try to have her ailment diagnosed and treated by Maester Gawen so she would become a civil being that he could permit to represent his house in Westeros.

He couldn’t wait a long period of time for her to become a proud Lannister like the rest of his house. If the matter continued on for too long, the situation would become public knowledge and another source of humiliation for his house and entertainment for Aerys.

“Milord? Milady?” a handmaid spoke through the wood of the closed door.

“Enter.”

Turning around, and Genna turning in her seat, both of them could see the distressed expression of Lady Sansa’s handmaid.

“Milord,” the handmaid repeated with a curtsy. “I fear that Lady Sansa has disappeared. I’ve checked her chambers and all of her belongings are gone.” Tywin watched the girl with scrutiny, which always made a servant speak more unless he was angry. “I’ve spoken to the others and we’re searching the castle for her now.”

He was tempted to tell them not to bother with the search, because he felt that Lady Sansa was no longer within Casterly Rock’s perimeter. This would be the doing of Blackfish.

If the grey mare of the girl’s was gone it would mean that Blackfish decided he was keeping a close eye on his courtly niece to the extent of taking her to his accommodations in Lannisport.

“Go to the stables and check for her horse, then return and report to me,” he instructed the handmaid.

Genna looked at him once the handmaid was gone. “Hoster Tully has a lot to gain from this marriage. Doesn’t his brother realise that?”

“He does,” Tywin replied and turned to fully face her. “However, should the king be true to his remark about Lady Sansa, Lord Tully would have far more to gain by having his daughter as Queen of Westeros.”

It was a painful comment to say but there was no denying it.

The solar was quiet until the sound of running feet could be heard from the hall.

“Enter.”

The handmaid was red-faced and breathing heavily. “Milord, her horse is gone.”

“You may go,” he told the girl.

_Blackfish isn’t taking chances._

_Lady Sansa or Cersei?  
_

_I'm sorry, Joanna. If the maester fails, I must do what's necessary for our son's sake._


	28. Lannister Discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL kept pulling me away from my computer,  
> I finally brought the books  
> And I've being fighting plot bunnies.
> 
> Chapter's a bit bigger though.  
> Enjoy!

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 2, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Inside the bedchamber his brother had been given, Jaime crossed it and sat down on the lowered bed beside Tyrion who was reading a book about letters and numbers. The breaking of fast had been really strange; Sansa was gone, Ser Karyl was gone too, and no one was surprised except Jaime, who hadn't come to dinner last night.

He couldn’t believe Father made him choose between squiring early and a wedding. There was no way Father didn't know about the wedding. And there was no way Father didn't know that Jaime wanted to be a knight.

Jaime blinked but couldn't keep them back anymore.

_Why did he have to tell me about Lord Sumner Crakehall? Father's been liege lord and warden for years. He knew what he wanted me to do before I talked to him._

Tyrion abandoned the book and looked to his big brother, reaching up with his stubby fingers to Jaime’s face before looking at them when they touched the first and fresh tracks on Jaime's face. Jaime put an arm around his little brother while Tyrion looked at the shine on his little fingers.

“Jaime,” Tyrion said sadly, putting his dry hand on Jaime’s other one. “Big brother is crying,” he said and buried himself into Jaime's side. “Why do you cry?”

Around Tyrion, Jaime wasn't ashamed to cry. Cersei and Father would call him weak, but Tyrion and Uncle Gery were different from the rest and didn’t care about being perfect. Jaime didn't let himself cry at the breaking of fast, but here in Tyrion's bedchamber he did.

Tyrion looked up to meet his eyes. “Was Father mean to you, Jaime? Father is mean to me,” Tyrion asked softly. The younger boy's eyes weren't hard like Father's.

Lifting his little brother into his lap, Jaime held Tyrion close and kept his eyes shut, welled tears trailing down his cheeks anyway.

“Yes, Tyrion,” he said quietly. He felt his little brother holding onto him tighter after Jaime’s words.

The care from his brother was like turning a key in a lock, and his breathing got shaky and grip grew a little tighter.

The words were muffled by Jaime’s tunic but he understood his brother’s next words. “What did Father do?”

Jaime swallowed and took a moment to answer. “He…Father told me something that made me happy,” he started and saw Tyrion look up to him.

His little brother was confused. “But you are sad?”

He briefly fiddled with the ends of Tyrion’s hair and sighed. “Yes, little brother. Father said I couldn’t do it after he told me.” Tyrion was three, smart, but only three; he needed to keep it easy for him to understand.

Tyrion was thoughtful for a second. “Stupid.”

Turning his head to the door, Jaime hoped no one was on the other side listening to them. Tyrion’s comment, on the other hand, had a point though. For Father to tell Jaime something he would be really happy about then turn around and force him to choose between duty and being a squire early, made no sense.

_Why did Father tell me about Lord Sumner Crakehall at all?_

He felt Tyrion make himself comfortable and Jaime loosened his grip so it was easier for his little brother. Sighing and resting his chin on the crown of Tyrion’s head, Jaime knew he would have to go to the tourney at some point but wasn’t in a hurry to leave Tyrion. Tyrion had never been mean to him, unlike Cersei or Father.

“Jaime best brother.”

Jaime looked at Tyrion and met those mismatching green and black eyes. “You too, Tyrion.” His little brother gave a smile that Jaime could only smile back to in response.

Jaime didn’t understand why Father was mean to the youngest of them. Tyrion was far from stupid and hadn’t done anything wrong like Cersei had. Aye, his body wasn’t perfect, but no one chose to be a dwarf; it just happened. And Jaime didn’t blame Tyrion for what happened to Mother; just like Sansa and her twin brothers.

He wasn’t always around to see what Father treated Tyrion like and a part of Jaime knew Father always glared at him. Instead of thinking about it, Jaime rubbed his brother’s back so Tyrion would know that someone did care about him. Looking down to the little boy snuggled against him, Jaime watched as Tyrion leaned into the hand on his back.

_Does anyone else do this?_

The idea of taking Tyrion to the tourney so his little brother wasn’t alone crossed his mind, making him wonder if it would be right to do it. Tyrion would never be able to compete in a melee, joust on horseback, or fight at all; not properly anyway.

_Would he like seeing it and want to do it too?_

If his brother found it exciting and wanted to do it one day, he’d have to say no; it sounded so much like what Father did yesterday. Father didn’t tell Jaime no, but his questions meant he couldn’t do it.

Jaime tightened his hold a little. _I won’t do that to my brother._

What Father did was horrible and had hurt Jaime so much that he didn’t go to dinner last night. Instead, he stayed in his chamber until breaking of fast. Father didn’t like his tears but there hadn’t been anyone in his bedchamber to tell him off for it.

It felt wrong not to take Tyrion to the tourney where other people would be, but Jaime knew it would hurt Tyrion less if he didn’t see something he could never do.

Tyrion staying here was the kinder thing to do.

Still sitting on Tyrion’s featherbed with the toddler in his lap, Jaime relished in the peace here and continued rubbing Tyrion’s back while thinking about nothing important.

It stayed like that for a while until Tyrion squirmed, but not trying to climb down from Jaime. Curious why his little brother was looking at the door, he stopped rubbing his back and listened for clues to why Tyrion was paying attention to it.

After a moment the voices of Aunt Genna and Father were becoming clearer for him to hear, but not all of the words were loud enough.

“…last chance for respect, Tywin, and…”

“…maester…The Citadel…”

“Citadel…best choice…Gery raged…pushing your son away…mustn’t….important…”

“I know, Genna.”

“…at all. Get in there and explain.”

“Honeyed words…no benefit…house.” Father’s voice was low at that time, so Jaime didn’t hear much.

Aunt Genna wasn’t too happy though and he heard more. “…a child…not King’s Landing…does not know the significance of one word…would not understand...”

In his lap, Tyrion was still and watching the door carefully. Jaime, on the other hand, was wiping away the tracks on his face so Father wouldn’t see them. There was nothing he could do about his eyes, but at least the tracks were gone.

Outside of Tyrion’s bedchamber, the talking went on for a little longer before someone opened the door and Father came in, eyes landing on Tyrion with a scowl but the little boy didn’t shake in Jaime’s lap. Father’s attention didn’t stay on Tyrion for long and turned to Jaime, who could see Aunt Genna’s body near the door as Father walked towards the pair.

Jaime didn’t put Tyrion down and kept the little boy in his lap. Father was horrible and if he didn’t like looking at Tyrion, Jaime didn’t care; not anymore.

There was an awkward silence as Jaime did nothing to move Tyrion and Father was staring into Jaime’s eyes with his hard ones. Not letting them bother him, Jaime stared right back at Father.

Aunt Genna cleared her throat and Father sighed in a way Jaime had never seen before but didn’t surprise Aunt Genna.

Watching his father and not letting go of Tyrion, Jaime waited for what Father had to say. “Jaime,” Father said with a look Jaime had never seen on Father; it was like he was struggling, but after a moment it was gone. “You made the right choice yesterday.” Jaime looked away at the reminder, but Father turned Jaime’s face so their eyes met. “Lord Crakehall and I discussed the seventh moon at the tourney; not the fourth.”

Jaime understood what the message meant for him, but he didn’t let his hopes rise like he did yesterday.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Instead, he only looked at Father and waited for the other part of the story to be told. Yesterday had a horrible second part, so there had to be a second part today too.

Behind Father, Aunt Genna moved and drew Jaime attention for a moment. “Jaime doesn’t believe you,” she said to Father before turning to Jaime. “Do you?”

Jaime said nothing, but there was a second when something, not anger, flashed in Father’s eyes; he didn’t know what.

Aunt Genna didn’t look surprised by Jaime’s silent answer and turned to Father. “You’re not in that snake pit of court,” she reminded Father. “You’re at home with your sons. Swallow your pride, Tywin, or all your efforts and this tourney will be for nothing.”

Jaime saw Father’s eyes flick to Tyrion for a second at the word ‘sons’ and a scowl on his face, which disappeared once he was looking at Jaime. Behind Father, Aunt Genna walked away and out of the chamber; the door closed behind her.

In Tyrion’s bedchamber there was a thick silence because no one was talking; Jaime waiting for the bad news, and Father not really doing anything. Watching Father, Jaime was getting bored and started to play with the ends of Tyrion’s locks; Tyrion always liked that and leaned into Jaime.

It was clear Father wasn’t happy about it, but Jaime didn’t care and continued giving his little brother the attention only him, Uncle Gery, Uncle Tyg, Aunt Genna, and Sansa gave Tyrion. The good type; not the scowls of Father, pity from Uncle Kevan, torment and hate from Cersei, and disgust from nearly everyone else.

Jaime didn’t give a whit what Father thought.

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

Right in front of him was a son he struggled to recognise; it was not the one sitting in the lap of the elder that was on his mind. Tywin didn’t recognise the behaviour of Jaime. He was by no means clueless of defiance from a child, he was familiarised with it in thanks to Cersei recently. On the lowered bed with eyes of understanding and a straight back, was Jaime.

Jaime.

The most obedient of his children.

Now staring right back at him and openly giving the dwarf affection it didn’t deserve.

Cersei shouted in her shows of defiance according to the Kevan and Genna; which he’d also seen for himself.

But right now and calmer than he ever anticipated of his son, Jaime sat there and knowingly, subtly, annoyed Tywin by failing to cease idly playing with the toddler’s hair and putting it on the floor.

From the posture of Jaime, it was clear his heir cared little or not at all about irritating Tywin.

Not an act of malice; Jaime’s eyes lacked the hate for that.

His son simply didn’t care.

Tywin had dealt with defiance from lords; he flooded Castamere using a swift stream.

He had dealt with shouts of defiance from Cersei; first, the sept, followed by a dungeon cell. And soon a cell of a different kind.

But Jaime, as much as Genna had pointed out, Tywin couldn’t afford to be at odds with his son after everything Cersei had done. No one would ever respect a dwarf, Great House or not; Tywin would never respect it after Joanna’s death. His heir was Tywin’s remaining means, beyond himself, to restore respect for House Lannister.

 _The life lesson is important, but to use the boy’s dreams and crush them was too harsh_ , Genna had said.

Tywin was not a man that knew how to nurture a child or had ever intended to. As the Lord of Casterly Rock, he managed the bannerman houses and ruled the Westerlands. His beloved late wife, Joanna, raised Jaime and Cersei until that fateful day, and Kevan and Genna picked up the reins after that.

Tywin lacked the knowledge about how to tend to a child beyond reading and lordship lessons; that was the extent of his experience.

It was obvious to Tywin, however, that Jaime was waiting for Tywin to drop the other proverbial boot. The information about which moon had been discussed hadn’t excited Jaime in the least, and Tywin hadn’t need Genna to comment that his son didn’t believe him. It was obvious to Tywin.

“Jaime,” he said, drawing his son’s attention. “A raven was to be sent to Riverrun during your journey to the wedding, informing you will be squiring upon your return,” Tywin divulged, watching his son’s expression of doubt remain.

Jaime took a breath and shook his head in disbelief. “Nearly a moon? Why didn’t you leave it as a surprise by not telling me about Lord Crakehall yesterday? Why hurt me like that?” Jaime asked with no sign of forgiveness on his son’s face. Tywin had hoped the information would improve matters at least by a small amount.  

“Mean,” the toddler said with conviction.

Tywin scowled at the comment from Tyrion, but focussed on his son; Jaime mattered greatly to the family’s future and would be departing for the Vale on the morrow at the latest. Matters between father and son couldn’t remain unresolved for the next few moons and be left to fester. “A lord can’t have all he desires without his rule suffering. You needed to learn that,” he explained, wondering if his son understood yesterday was a lesson.

His son’s eyes grew disappointed and hardened. “You say you talked about the seventh moon, but telling me I can’t do it again?” Jaime replied indignantly, misunderstanding what Tywin had said. His son shook his head. “I knew it was a story! Do you have to make it worse?!” Jaime finished with a shout.

Tywin normally wouldn’t tolerate such behaviour from any of his children; Cersei had witnessed proof of that. However, Cersei behaviour was disobedience whereas Jaime clearly misinterpreted Tywin and was feeling hurt from it. A Lannister needed to be strong, but now was not the time to focus on strength to Tywin’s displeasure.

He wouldn’t coddle his son.

However, being cold toward his son wasn’t an option either.

His son needed to trust Tywin if the house was to have a united front against the others. The moment something happened to Tywin’s accumulated power, another house would pounce at the opportunity to become the strongest house. House Lannister’s was dwindling in part to King Aerys’ mocking in court and Cersei’s actions.

Never had Tywin ever believed he would need to concern himself with trust and aye, apologies with anyone, let alone his children. Yet here he was, Jaime is the last hope for House Lannister’s pride and the boy was pulling away and not believing the words of his father.

He could not lose his son’s trust or the future of the family would be in shambles.

He could not allow that.

Tywin had never given anyone, House Lannister or otherwise, an apology, but it was apparent Jaime would hold a grudge like a wronged Lannister if Tywin didn’t act to restore matters with his son.

He’d never intended to do it and didn’t know how to do it persuasively; this must have been what Genna referred to when she strongly suggest he swallowed his pride.

He loathed the idea of it. It was a show of weakness. House Lannister is not and should never be weak on his watch.

Firstly, he needed Jaime to understand the situation of being a squire. He couldn’t afford a greater wedge between himself and his son. “You will squire upon your return, Jaime. That is the truth. And you won’t raise your voice at me,” he told his son. Tywin mayhaps wronged Jaime from the view of his son, but nevertheless, he wouldn’t be disrespected by the boy.

Jaime’s eyes were searching for a lie, but there was none to for him to find and the boy’s shoulders eventually lost their tension. “Why did you do that to me? Not telling me which moon I would start. Crakehall is here for the tourney. It only made sense I left with him after it,” Jaime pointed out his earlier deduction.

“A test, Jaime. Duty or want. Your answer showed you understand what is important as liege lord, and you answered well. A harsh test, but necessary,” Tywin explained, watching his son doubt him and Tywin sighed.

He was going to have to do it and do something he had never done before if his son was to obey Tywin’s bidding in the future. Jaime was all he had left of the twins.

Making sure he had eye contact with Jaime, Tywin held his son’s chin to maintain it. “Using the option of becoming a squire in the test was a mistake, Jaime,” he told his son and witnessed Jaime’s eyes widen at the admission. Tywin hadn’t believed it was a mistake until seeing the damage the test had done between them from Kevan’s view.

He needed his son on his side if House Lannister was to survive against the other houses.

Tywin swallowed and he forced the words out.

It was necessary.

“I apologise.”

 

JAIME LANNISTER

Jaime felt like Ser Dameon had just rung his head like a bell in swordsman training.

Father _never_ said sorry.

 _Never_ said something was a mistake.

Father was always hard with him. He was hard about everything with everyone.

Father’s next words didn’t disappoint. “The world is cruel, Jaime, and the sooner you realised this the safer you will be. You needed to understand to ensure you will have strength when hard choices must be made,” Father told him with his certain voice.

He must have seen something in Jaime’s look because he spoke again. “You were squiring one way or another after the wedding.”

Jaime didn’t know what to think about what Father’s words. Dare he believe them?

Then again, Father did look stiff when he said sorry. If it was a lie he wouldn’t be so uncomfortable. At least Jaime thought so.

_And Father never made me put Tyrion down._

After thinking about that, Jaime stopped playing with Tyrion’s locks and just held him like before when Father had entered the bedchamber earlier. Upon stopping the affection for Tyrion, Jaime noticed the way Father wasn’t as tense as before.

Not sure what to say, he only nodded to Father and watched as the man gave a single one back. “Prepare for the tourney, Jaime. The melee final will begin soon.”

Then Father left the bedchamber, closing the door behind himself.

Letting out a breath and looking to Tyrion in disbelief, Jaime shook his head and picked up Tyrion’s book and spent a little more time with his little brother; watching him read the letters and simple sentences out loud followed by the numbers really well. Tyrion was having no trouble like Jaime used to.

_We’re all not perfect in some way._

Turning the pages for Tyrion when the cheeky brother tapped Jaime’s hands, Jaime listened to the sniggers from the boy who could turn the pages himself. It didn’t bother Jaime at all; he enjoyed it actually. Tyrion was comfortable enough around Jaime to be a mischief and Jaime played along because it was two brothers being silly for no real reason.

Looking at the window when they finished the book, Jaime lifted Tyrion from his lap and back on the mattress.

“Aww...,”

Jaime felt guilty for leaving Tyrion behind today, but he’d rather do this than hurt his brother. Kneeling on the floor so their eyes were level, Jaime tickled Tyrion’s foot and who tossed on the bed to get away. “I have to go, little brother.”

Tyrion got off the bed and waddled to Jaime, grabbing one of his hands. “Come back after?”

Pulling him into a hug, Jaime leaned back after a second. “I will tonight, Tyrion.”

His brother looked at the window. “All day?” he said in dismay.

“All day,” Jaime repeated back. “I’m sorry.”

Tyrion wrapped his little arms around Jaime’s neck. “Sansa?”

“All day too, little brother. If I can find her.”

“Bored alone,” Tyrion huffed and a bit of slobber landed on Jaime’s cheek.

“Ugh, Tyrion. You’re too old for that,” Jaime complained, pulling away and wiping his cheek.

Tyrion grinned as he watched Jaime and his eyes lit up. “Am not,” was Jaime’s only warning.

Rolling out of the way and ruffling Tyrion hair, Jaime retreated to the door and laughed at the sight of Tyrion’s golden hair. “See you tonight, little brother.”

“Hate messy hair!” Tyrion yelled, pushing his hair back down.

“I’ll see you tonight, Tyrion,” Jaime promised, opening the door.

“Mean big brother,” his brother complained half-heartedly.

Jaime rolled his eyes and went back to Tyrion. “I know, Tyrion, I’m awful,” he replied sarcastically.

“Not awful,” Tyrion argued. “No messy hair, promise?”

“I promise, little brother,” he said, tickling Tyrion for a second and making him laugh. “Don’t be naughty.”

“I’m not naughty.”

“Good,” Jaime replied, giving his little brother a quick hug. “You’re my best brother.”

“Best brother too,” Tyrion replied, waddling to Jaime and hugging him but without any spit this time. “Bye, Jaime.”

Rising to his feet, Jaime tickled Tyrion for a second. “Bye, Tyrion.”

 

CERSEI LANNISTER

Rising from the wooden bench in the cold dungeon cell of Casterly Rock, Cersei began pacing within it again and routinely checking to see if anyone was coming to release her. She didn’t know what time it was, but looking at the bowl of food she’d eaten earlier morning was her guess.

She was in Casterly Rock again.

Near her other half.

Jaime.

Turning around in her cell again, Cersei saw the bars and the ugly reminder of being trapped down here. Picking up the bowl, she hurled it at the bars and watched as the dish shattered on impact. Destroying the bowl meant for a prisoner made her feel better and hearing the sound of it was satisfying.

_Gods be damned, I will escape from here. I am not going to Oldtown._

_Jaime is my other half; he is me but in another body._

_I refuse to let my other half to marry that wench._

Grabbing the door of her cell and giving it a shake, Cersei screamed in frustration when the door didn’t open.

She had to reclaim Jaime before she did anything else. Jaime was half of her soul.

The sight of Prince Rhaegar was breath-taking yesterday at the tourney, and she refused to believe Father’s claim of King Aerys rejecting her for his son; the future king. She was going to be Queen of Westeros, but not without Jaime there so she would be complete.

_Princes become kings, and kings need a Kingsguard._

_Jaime in the Kingsguard._

_Perfect._

So deep in her thoughts and plan for her future, Cersei startled when someone’s shoes skidded on the stone floor.

_Will he free me again?_

Outside her cell was the same boy as yesterday at the sept.

She stalked up to the bars and gripped the bars of the door. “Get me out of here,” she snapped at him, but the boy didn’t take offence, not that she cared. “Who are you?”

“You want to be the queen, Cersei,” he told her wasting her time. He leaned forward. “I can help you,” he said lifting a hand with a key.

The sight of the key Father had boasted about having the only one of made Cersei desperate and shake the door. “Open this damned door!” Cersei demanded, watching as he looked at her thoughtfully.

Pocketing the key, he knelt down and pretended to be picking up the pieces of the broken bowl. “I can help you,” he repeated quietly, glancing each direction for a moment. “If you learn to be cunning.”

“You dare tell me I’m not?!” she snarled at him.

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the way out. “You shouted at your father and were put in the Lannisport Sept.”

Cersei gaped at him but hardened herself. The boy helped her escape yesterday and today he was in the dungeons of her home claiming to have the key. “How did you know that? That was over a moon ago,” she demanded, wanting to know how he got the details.

“People talk in Lannisport. You were dragged up the steps of the sept, they say. You were screaming curses about your father, meaning he sent you there.”

That was what happened and Cersei bristled at the fact he seemed to know a lot.

“I got you released from the sept and soon after I saw Ser Kevan taking you away from the tourney. And now you’re here; locked in a cell.”

Cersei scowled and narrowed her eyes at him. “No one does anything for free.”

The lips of the green-eyed, black-haired boy quirked and she knew there was a reason he wasn’t telling her.

She leaned forward. “What do you want? Who are you?”

“Your father would be looking for me after yesterday. I can’t give my name,” he remarked, watching her with a gaze of ambition. “But what do I want?” he repeated back. “Sansa Stully.” It didn’t seem like the full answer and was stuttered, but she didn’t care less right now.

_The sooner Jaime is free of her, the sooner I will have my other half._

Without hesitation she replied. “I can ruin that wench’s betrothal to Jaime, but how do you plan to make me the queen?”

Cersei would give him Tully no matter what, but she wanted to rule beside Rhaegar Targaryen. Ruining a betrothal couldn’t be too hard, but giving her the crown was a much bigger thing. Watching the boy that had the key out of here, Cersei glared at him when he gestured for her to kneel just like him, but kneel she did.

The floor was disgusting and immediately made her skirts dirty. This was not how a highborn lady and future queen should look; she should never look like this, but this boy had a key in his pocket. The key to everything.

_A broken betrothal._

_Her other half._

_Her future as Queen._

The boy wasn’t smiling, but his eyes held the promise of success. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to,” he told her quietly. “Learn cunning, Lady Cersei. I started from nothing after being banished, my lady. I used cunning and now I’m a Royce cupbearer, an important Vale house. If I use cunning again I will get a better place than cupbearer and with a higher house. Understand?”

“Yes, but how will you make me queen?” Cersei said persistently. It felt as though everything she wanted Cersei only had to reach out and grab it. She would have all of her soul, and she would be Queen of Westeros.

“Cunning,” he replied. “A calm façade that hides your truths and makes people trust you. It’s working for me. It can work for you,” the boy said before his eyes were on the bars. “Look around you, Lady Cersei. Everything so far has led to this cell.”

Cersei thought about it for little time at all. She was going to be the queen because Father and the king planned to betrothal her to Rhaegar Targaryen.

_I am cunning and need to get out of this cursed cell. I need the key and nothing more. This boy’s cunning won’t make me queen, I will make me queen._

But it seems that her thoughts weren’t private, the boy looked disappointed but there wasn’t a chance for her to demand an answer from him. There was the sound of boots and the boy took off with her key in his pocket.

“Damn it!” she screamed, hitting the bars of the doors and feeling pain shortly after.

A minute later the one person she desired to be reunited with turned the corner and came into view, but unlike the boy with her key, Jaime didn’t come close.

She tried reaching out through the bars, but he was too far for her arms. “Jaime…Jaime, please. Talk to Father. Get me out of here. I’ve missed you,” she pleaded, hoping it would be enough to make him walk up to the bars.

His arms were loosely crossed while he kept his distance. “I heard the servants talking but I had to see it for myself,” he admitted to her. Jaime was shaking his head as he looked at the cell and her inside it. “I never thought…” Jaime trailed off. “I suppose it’s for the best…”

_My other half._

There was the sound of running feet and a stable boy she recognised approached Jaime. “Your horse destrier is ready, my lord.”

_Don’t turn- No! Don’t- We belong together. JAIME!_

She clenched her hands around the bars. “NO!”

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

Watching his son mount the destrier with some assistance, Tywin saw Jaime ride up to the side of two uncles; Tygett and Gerion who’d made it into the jousting finals. He’d anticipated his son joining Genna in the wheelhouse, but it was clear the boy had no intention to do so. Looking over to his sister, Tywin clearly saw her gesturing for him to enter it for what was likely another discussion.

Dismounting his horse and handing its reins to the driver of the wheelhouse, Tywin took the opposite seat to his sister inside and a moment later the family, except his daughter and questionable son, were on their way to the tourney. On his belt was the very key he’d locked his daughter in the dungeons with.

There was no chance he was going to allow Cersei to cause further destruction to the family name and future.

Her needs would be seen to, but there was no chance she was seeing the light of day this day.

It was with a reluctant mind that Tywin turned his attention outward to Genna. Over the past few conversations with her, it was always a matter of bad news or an impending problem he could halt with much effort.

Tywin was no stranger to resolving problems or regularly tending to large responsibilities, however, it was becoming wearing. Far from being worn down, Tywin fixed his eyes on Genna and was prepared for the bad news.

It appeared she’d picked up on it and shook her head. “Not a new issue or development of an existing one, Tywin,” she reassured but sounded solemn. “Rather something I’ve observed over the past moon that I feel must be addressed.” Her voice was once of seriousness but not desperation as the past few conversations had contained.

He was in no mood for mysteries he got straight to the point. “Genna, we’ve had layers of situations build up for our house to counter, increasingly so in recent times. What is this observation?”

Genna’s eyes were of disbelief veiled by a solemn attitude. “I’ve watched the Tully girl from the beginning. For over a moon,” she said, with a shake of her head and glancing out the window. “When she arrived and prior to Jaime in the sept, she was courtly, calm confidence, intelligent and a capable future Lady of Casterly Rock,” Genna began, looking Tywin directly in the eyes. “The letter from the High Septon falling into her hands made her fearful for her family; I could see it.”

His sister paused and leaned forward. “However, the following morning upon your private talk with her, her calm confidence became guarded,” she pointed out and not breaking eye contact. “In Casterly Rock alone I’ve known the girl for five sennights now and I see the way her composure subconsciously shifts by a fraction when you’re nearby.”

Genna’s disbelief was no longer veiled. “You’ve threatened to harm her family if word spreads, Tywin. What else would someone use to silence a Tully?”

It was true he had done such a thing, no matter how subtle or veiled he’d done it. He didn’t regret the decision in doing so though. At the time he hadn’t known what her tendencies in a severe situation were; whether the girl would alert her family and friends or keep the information to herself. He merely provided a motivator for her to maintain silence.

“Yes, Genna, it was necessary,” he told her bluntly.

His sister nodded. “Security for House Lannister is necessary, but has it occurred to you that someone else unknown to us witnessed the twins?”

“A scant possibility,” he replied, feeling sure there were no chances of the information leaking. He had taken care of the two knights, allegedly lost their footing on the Peak Tower battlements, after all.

“Tywin,” Genna said, bringing her hands together in her lap. “Your exact words to Lady Sansa; I need context.”

He decided to amuse her with the answer. “Keep this knowledge to yourself, and you will have nothing to fear,” he recited

Genna released a breath. “At least it wasn’t a direct threat. The ambiguity works in our favour,” his sister remarked with less tension than earlier. “Brother, not a word has been uttered about the incident. It’s clear Lady Sansa kept the matter to herself, otherwise, Brynden Tully would be leaving for Riverrun,” Genna pointed out towards the very man with both of his nieces.

The sight of them was a two-fold relief for him after the conversation thus far with Genna. It was apparent to Tywin that Genna’s words were true, for Brynden Tully could have easily chosen to depart for Riverrun this morrow had he known. The second matter their presence reassured him of was the possibility of the betrothal between his son and Lady Sansa remaining intact.

“Tywin,” his sister said drawing his attention from the sight. “I know how you perceive the world; everyone against Lannisters. However, if everyone including Lady Sansa was against us, she could have exploited this event to spread the word to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms without using a raven.” Genna paused for a moment before speaking again. “Apparently not, otherwise Aerys would be japing more at our expense or outright mocking us.”

She had made an exceptionally strong argument concerning Lady Sansa’s silence and waited for her last comment.

“Telling the entire realm of the scandal would be in the interest of her family because if a single Lannister sword touched her family, we’d be confirming her words and become an absolute laughingstock no one would associate with. However, she had not. She is not an enemy, Tywin. Repeal your threat in private and work alongside her concerning Jaime.” Genna sighed and looked him directly in the eyes again. “Our house needs every supporter possible after Cersei’s actions. Lady Sansa is one such supporter; tell her you misjudged her and that her family is safe. She’s proved herself.”

Tywin looked in the girl’s direction again.

“You know I’m right about this, Tywin.”

He conceded to her argument. It was valid and House Lannister needed its supporters, even a courtly girl that he must wed his son to so to ensure a position in the alliance. “Indeed,” he grudgingly admitted.

He’d intended for apologies of any kind to cease after his son this morning.

Vassal lords and lesser members of court were those who gave the apologies and paid their debts towards House Lannister. He grew up always fixing his father’s mistakes and lords had attempted to escape repayment using words. After the Revolt, his lords repaid their debts and those who’d been resistant were visited by a lute player to remind them Tywin was not Tytos.

Exiting the wheelhouse at the tourney grounds, Tywin spotted his brothers Tygett and Gerion easily enough; Gerion had a loathing expression aimed towards him. Not far from them were his son and the Dornish prince conversing about presumably Jaime’s horse while the prince was inspecting it with the nuances of one interested in horseflesh.

Witnessing the fond interaction between the Salty Dornishman and his son, Tywin didn’t intervene when his son very clearly permitted the man to test the destrier for himself. The idea of that hot-headed prince using his son’s horse in the tourney’s joust soured his thoughts, but he felt a feminine hand on his shoulder.

“Every supporter, Tywin.”

_I know…it does not mean I must approve of my son’s choices._


	29. Lannisport Tourney: Melee Finals

BRYNDEN TULLY

_Day 2, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Brynden watched as his niece, Sansa, wandered over to Jaime Lannister to witness the second prince of Dorne testing the destrier from Casterly Rock. Presumably, the prince needed a mount more appropriate for the final tilts than a Dornish sand steed.

When Oberyn Martell first appeared at Riverrun and left that same day, Brynden thought that was the end of the man’s involvement in Tully affairs.

The Dornish scandal of the Martells and the Yronwoods had reached the Riverlands multiple times and each with changes, but there was a common theme in all of them.

The Red Viper was walking trouble; or fucking, depending how you looked at it but that didn’t particularly matter.

 _Trouble,_ he had thought when he first encountered the soaked prince on the ledge of Brynden’s home with an equally wet girl that looked like Cat.

Prince Oberyn returned three days before Minisa’s death and was a welcome man at Riverrun, having caused no trouble. Now it seemed Prince Oberyn would be a consistent part of Tully lives; particularly Sansa’s.

When Hoster decided to spin a tale to tell the realm and privately make Sansa a ward and later a daughter, Brynden could see the wheels of Hoster’s scheming mind were prepared to turn if everything went on favourably.

But that was Brynden’s issue with Hoster. The extent of his scheming.

Upon his and his brother’s return from the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Hoster soon after took Minisa Whent to wife. That was all well and good, Hoster wanted Minisa and Minisa wanted Hoster; a love match for all intent and purposes and within the Riverlands, not some grand scheme of gain.

But the moment Hoster told Brynden of his proposal to have Brynden marry some Redwyne girl from the Reach, Brynden took that letter and had thrown it into the fire. It could have burnt in the Seven Hells for all Brynden cared and told Hoster as much.

Brynden had just fought and killed a great deal of men and had no desire to be told _when_ and _whom_ to marry. His brother wanted to use him, family, like a cyvasse piece for schemes, and Brynden would not stand by and have Hoster control his life thus.  

From then on, out of spite, he refused anything his brother presented to him. It strained things between them to be sure, but he won’t be brought to heel like a dog and accept some match to sate his brother.

Like their ancestors before them, Hoster and Brynden knew that in order for the family to survive, alliances in the Riverlands must be made. Thus every Tully child is taught “Family, Duty, Honour” – The Tully words.

Brynden huffed. _And pains in the Tully arse._

When Catelyn was eight, Brynden refused the Bracken offer and Hoster must have finally realised his brother would not bend to his will. The frustration made Hoster snap and sparked the fight that ended with Brynden’s alias ‘Blackfish’ and his personal sigil; a much more intimidating black trout.

Brynden had no regrets standing up for himself, but he did regret Catelyn witnessing that dispute. She was an innocent child and a pleasure to be an uncle to. Lysa hadn’t seen but no doubt knew there’d been a fight.

That was four years ago.

And now Hoster was using his own daughters for schemes. There was no denying that Catelyn’s betrothal was of Hoster’s making _and_ outside the Riverlands. When ravens began flying between Riverrun and Winterfell, Brynden suspected Hoster was using his eldest daughter in a scheme. The use of his daughter for such things disgusted Brynden.

_Damned hypocrite, you followed the words for yourself with Minisa, but want everyone else to ignore them for your plans._

When Hoster became interested in the Westerlands, he suspected Hoster was going to marry Lysa to Jaime Lannister in another scheme. The possibility sewed further strain between them, but after the Baelish incident and the subsequent discussion in the Lord’s solar, Minisa consulted Brynden for suggestions of bannerman sons for Lysa instead.

He could have suggested the Freys, but that was about Lysa, not Hoster.

This apparent change of heart in Hoster about using his daughters like cyvasse pieces mildly thawed Brynden’s loathing towards him.

Lysa was a different girl to Catelyn and Sansa, she needed a betrothal of a different kind, and Hoster abandoned his interests in the Lannisters.

Hoster had abandoned a marriage scheme for the sake of his child.

_Mayhaps there is hope Hoster will do what is right by family, not his machinations._

That change of mind for the sake of Lysa’s happiness and welfare showed Brynden that Hoster had a heart as well as an astute mind. The strains of the past were still between them, and most likely will always linger. However, should Hoster break the betrothal between Sansa and Jaime Lannister if matters soured for Sansa in the future, Brynden might stop actively giving Riverlands ladies the cold shoulder.

_She’d be of my choosing, not Hoster’s. If he gets ideas in his head again I’ll go where he can’t hound me to marry a woman of his choosing._

Life had its ironies; Sansa’s betrothal to Jaime Lannister was identical to Hoster original plan for Lysa’s future from what little he knew. But the situation had sparked and formed without any plotting from Hoster. Brynden had no intent to marry on his brother’s terms, but he was interested in what the future held for his nieces.

Sansa’s betrothal was not within the Riverlands, but it was clear to any idiot that things between Sansa and Jaime Lannister were positive and had the strength of friendship. Hoster had abandoned the idea of a Tully/Lannister marriage scheme after Baelish’s act for Lysa’s sake. But irony reared its head and Ser Kevan approached Hoster to betroth Sansa to Jaime Lannister; it was exactly what his brother desired earlier.

However, Brynden couldn’t fault Hoster for accepting an offer for the girl. His suspicions of Hoster scheming remains, of course, but she’d appeared from nowhere and was near identical to Catelyn. The nature of her appearance in both sense of the word was suspicious and perfect fuel for damning rumours.

To reject an offer from Tywin Lannister outright meant they had something to hide; and feeling spurned, the man would seek to drag the truth to the surface for all to hear to humiliate them.

When Hoster told Brynden about the safeguards he’d demanded to protect Sansa from harm, Brynden couldn’t deny credit where due. True, the betrothal matched the intended scheming for Lysa, but making demands to the Great Lion meant his brother had more concerns for family than gains.

No one knew where in the Seven Hells Sansa had come from. Hoster swore up and down that he sired no bastards, and sweet Minisa never strayed from Hoster’s side. The child was peculiar; a spine of steel, a soft heart, the eyes of a veteran from war, but the scheming mind akin to Hoster’s.

He’d watched her yesterday at the opening feast for the tourney. She was clearly friends with Elia Martell, introduced her and Prince Oberyn to the Arryns, and later made to approach the Arryns, but faltered and walked away when the princess was talking seriously with Lord Jon.

Apparently, the princess’s gown of pastel blue and the palest of creams was Sansa’s work. And work that flattered the princess’s figure.

_If that’s not scheming, I’m not a Tully._

When the food was served he’d asked the princess what she thought about Sansa’s colour choice after providing the woman with information about the Arryns. Princess Elia was unbothered by the coincidence and expressed gratitude about Sansa; Elia of Dorne mentioned a lack of luck concerning matches and still considered the girl a good friend.

_Scheming to help a friend, unlike Hoster._

But it was scheming, and mayhaps there was greater reason Hoster was tying House Tully to other kingdoms.

Walking along the top of the stands to find a good view of the field, Brynden’s eyes fell upon the countless wheelhouses outside with sigils from every one of the Seven Kingdoms, excluding the Iron Islands. Each wheelhouse except those with Riverlands sigils was well-manned.

It was only a fraction of the soldiers each kingdom had but the number they spared for their retinues were telling of their forces back home.

Coming here to this tourney and seeing the arrival of rather large retinues of multiple Great Houses showed proof of something he’d failed to see earlier from stubbornness and anger towards his brother.

_House Tully lacks the power to fight with swords, our military is too small. House Tully must fight with marriages to gain swords._

Turning his eyes towards Catelyn he saw her talking to Eddard Stark a row or so closer to the melee field.

The Starks had thirty thousand swords with time to muster them.

Brynden glanced over to the tall figure of Lord Tywin Lannister standing with a neutral expression near the king.

The Lannisters had slightly less at five and twenty thousand on short notice.

Spotting the blue and cream surcoat of Lord Jon Arryn wasn’t difficult, and with them was Elia Martell bidding her betrothed luck for the melee.

The Arryns had five and forty thousand at full strength and quickly mustered.

The Martells were the same.

He turned his gaze to Lord Steffon Baratheon and his wife, Cassana, in the colours of black and gold. Their youngest Stannis nearby while the eldest, Robert, was a short distance away and talking to young ladies.

The Baratheons had thirty thousand swords if given time to gather.

The Queen of Thorns was talking with her son looking unimpressed.

The Tyrells had fifty thousands swords and another twenty thousand soldiers to command but needed time to assemble.

Brynden made it his business to know such things.

Finally, his eyes looked to Sansa in another section of the stands; a mysterious bastard but a trueborn in the eyes of the family, even him.

But the Tullys…

_Divided cooperation from vassal lords makes us a pitiful comparison._

_Ten thousand swords._

If vassal lords ever stopped squabbling over land like a new toy, the Tullys could match the Arryns and Martells without trouble.

_We have the trained people to be sure, but without natural borders and united vassals, we don’t have the command._

Seeing those retinues and hearing lords boast about manpower compared to other kingdoms was a sting on Brynden’s pride. And hearing the Riverlands’ lacking command mentioned in conversation was salt on the wound.

If a bold warden ever set their eyes on the Riverlands, it would take little for them to succeed.

The Riverlands are and always have been the middle child of Westeros; caught up in every fart from one warden at another. Sharing borders with nearly all of the Seven Kingdoms.

_If Hoster marries his sons and daughters to bannerman houses throughout the Riverlands, the squabbles could be brought to heel and House Tully have full command of its swords._

_We wouldn’t be so limited. Ten thousand or five and forty thousand; I know what I’d choose._

But waiting nearly two decades for it to happen after the births of Edmure, Oswell and Joseth was asking for trouble, and vassal squabbles were getting worse. Hoster needed something more immediate to ensure control and protection of the Riverlands.

_So he’s using kingdoms and daughters to solve it._

Hoster was a schemer; always had been and always will be. Now, however, he was scheming out of necessity to keep the Riverlands formidable through the use of allies. Hadn’t his brother tried pushing some girl from the Reach onto Brynden with his plotting, Brynden might have had a family of his own in the Riverlands by now. Had that happened, Brynden was as sure as the Seven Hells the vassals wouldn’t be squabbling as much.

And the Riverlands would have a better force.

Sighing as he watched the men in the field prepare for the melee, Brynden glanced over towards his nieces on an adjacent side of the stands and noticed a familiar face half hidden behind Sansa’s flank and donned in a Royce surcoat.

_Fucking boy. Hoster would have you whipped if he was here._

Brynden didn’t trust the little shit and edged his way to a closer seat so he could see what he was muttering in her ear, for he was muttering. He didn’t need to be in hearing range, but close enough that he could read the boy’s lips.

_You learn things in a war._

Brynden paid close attention to the conversation that was clearly being whispered.

It appeared that Baelish was speaking currently. *This must be strange for you, Lady Stark,* the boy remarked near her ear.

The only outward reaction from Sansa was confusion on her face. That made two of them. *My sister, Catelyn, is the future Lady Stark, Petyr Baelish,* she muttered back. *My future is Lady Lannister.*

Baelish raised an eyebrow that Brynden’s niece wouldn’t have seen. *Is it?* the boy said. *Apologies, Sansa. I meant to say Lady Lannister. A minor mistake, forgive me. I was only present at the betrothal feast for Catelyn, and not yours.*

_What a heap of horseshit. The boy was in the Vale long before Cat’s feast. How else would he weasel his way into being a Royce cupbearer?_

Sansa looked at Baelish in brief confusion but didn’t do any other telling reaction. *And yet you said ‘strange’. What’s to be strange, Petyr Baelish?*

He turned his head towards Sansa with a wry expression but it was gone soon after. *The Lannisters aren’t the most friendly of houses. They never were friendly to you.*

_What the fuck is this boy nattering on about?_

Brynden’s niece kept any physical response under lock and key and replied as she watched all men except Prince Oberyn leave the field from the third melee, who took a seat in the shade beside Elbert Arryn. *Everyone here would know the song ‘Rains of Castamere’*

Baelish looked as though he heard the most amusing jape that existed, but the reason was lost on Brynden. *Songs, Sansa?*

Sansa was clearly irritated but the look vanished after a moment. These two were acting like tight-lipped adults in King’s Landing court. *Need I recite the words? And it’s ‘my lady’, Baelish.*

The boy didn’t look phased by the reply. *No, no, my lady. There’s no need for that. The answer amused me, nothing more. But speaking of songs, there’s one I do not recall occurring. Would you refresh my memory?*

This time Sansa turned to look at Baelish and she wasn’t impressed. *My hand marking your face?* she remarked and Brynden smirked at her offer. Sansa knew how to leave a bruise; he’d seen it last time. *Father banished you from Riverrun.*

When Sansa’s eyes were on the field for the next melee quarter-final, Baelish looked at Brynden's niece in confusion but quickly concealed it. *We’re in Lannisport. And ‘Father’, my lady?*

_Seven Hells, what is wrong with the boy?_

The way Baelish had said ‘Father’ slowly meant he was questioning her.

Gods knew why.

Sansa’s attention was on the field but she did respond. *He sired me. What do you suppose I call my father?*

_Hoster firmly told Cat and Lysa a word was not to be uttered about Sansa’s unknown parentage. They could have spoken of it, but disobeying their father’s severe tone is highly unlikely._

Baelish had his eyes on the field as well but glanced around the stands for someone before exploiting Sansa’s angle to hide from someone. *Exactly that, naturally. To not call him your father is like saying a stone is soft and pliable.*

Brynden scoffed at the comment but kept his profile low. Sansa’s hand on the side Baelish couldn’t see twitched, but otherwise, she merely replied in the whispers the pair used. *A stone? I would have used saying the sky is green.*

_What was that about?_

*Yes, it felt appropriate,* Baelish said to Sansa looking calm and collected. Brynden had never seen the boy like that in Riverrun.

Sansa rolled her eyes, which Baelish physically couldn’t have seen, and replied back. *You seem particularly confident today.*

*That’s a pleasant change. I’ve been called a lackwitted fool for the past sennight by the Royces.*

_And I bloody agree with them, Baelish. You weren’t at Catelyn’s betrothal feast, Cat is the one betrothed to a Stark, and you shouldn’t have forgotten what you were banished for._

Frankly, it was highly tempting for Brynden to go over there and rip the boy away from his niece, who obviously was hiding her thoughts behind a courtly expression.

Sansa turned her head to Baelish slightly. *A fool? Why?*

_I’ve got my own reasons right here._

*Nothing significant. Let’s say they don’t like questions or occasional forgetfulness.*

_Occasional, my arse. What do you want with her, Baelish?_

Brynden was riled and ready to barge over there, but knowing what in the name of the gods was going on was more important.

Sansa didn’t look the boy’s way when she replied. *Like calling me ‘Lady Stark?*

The little twit smirked behind Sansa. *Like calling you ‘Lady Stark’, Lady* A deliberate and smirked pause. *Lannister.*

Brynden had just about had it with this utter nonsense, but seated and watching he remained.

His niece had her eyes on the field, but not truly watched the melee down below. *Have you forgotten what my father told you the night before you were sent away?*

Baelish blinked but otherwise had little reaction. *I must have forgotten and for that, I must apologise. Enlighten me, Lady Sansa.*

_Genuine confusion? Did someone hit you over the head with a mace, boy?_

*It was a major incident. I can’t see how you have.*

_Walk away from the damn boy, Sansa._

*But I have. What did Lord Tully tell me?*

Sansa didn’t bother turning her head. *You’re lying.*

*Am I? I was being honest.*

His niece bit the corner of her lip to refrain a reaction. *I don’t believe you.*

_Neither do I._

But the boy was persistent. *Why would I admit to forgetting if I know the truth? But I see I can’t convince you, future Lady Lannister.*

*if you don’t want to anger the Royces, why aren’t you with them?* she asked, clearly wanting the boy gone.

Before he spoke it was a moment with an expression of calculation on Baelish’s face. *You will never have the love of Jaime Lannister,* he told Sansa, close to her ear, but still hidden from someone in the stands. *Why pain yourself trying to stand between them? There are others who would happily accept your hand, my lady. Lannister will grow bored of the charade eventually and return to his lover…his sister. And she will give him bastards.*

_Gods be good, this has to be tripe! Everything else has been._

Sansa showed no outward reaction and didn’t turn to meet Baelish’s gaze. *That’s quite a tale to claim, Baelish.*

_Understatement, niece._

Baelish looked at Sansa like she was a puzzle that made no sense; a cunning move gone wrong or having no effect. *You have no idea, do you?* the boy said to her with a calm expression and scheming eyes.

*Of what?* Sansa replied, looking to Baelish with a look that clearly said he was crazy. *Petyr, I don’t understand. It’s absurd.*

Baelish appeared to be waiting for something that never happened and Sansa’s expression didn’t change from her last. *The truth,* the boy whispered. *He loves her, she loves him, and when Cersei is old enough they will have bastards together. I’d wager they’ll have three.* Brynden noticed Sansa’s right hand, the side the boy wouldn’t see, was moving to a pocket and draw out something small. *You can’t stop it,* Baelish finished, relishing in uttering this horseshit.

Brynden wasn’t seated anymore and made sure he was a level above the pair as he walked through the broad stands quickly. Movement from the other end of Sansa’s side caught Brynden’s attention and he saw that it was an annoyed Yohn Royce.

Baelish was blind to the both of them, his sight blocked by Sansa on one side and Brynden approaching from above. Sansa released her small object back into her pocket, but Brynden didn’t have time to think about it.

Sansa slapped Baelish soundly and drew gasps and attention from those around them. “He’s my betrothed and I won’t tolerate slander towards him, Petyr Baelish,” she angrily told the boy, her volume now normal and clear to be heard.

A tall shadow was cast upon Brynden’s face. “And what slander would you strike him for, my lady?” Tywin Lannister spoke with underlying demand.

He was watching his niece while Brynden hauled the little shit to his feet. Sansa meets the Hand’s eyes. “The worst kind, my lord Hand,” she told him solemnly. Brynden had never heard her speak so seriously, but after the boy’s litany of horseshit, he couldn’t blame her.

There was a moment of wordless communication between Lord Tywin and Sansa, and the Warden of the West approached Brynden but lifted the chin of Petyr to look him in the eyes. “Thought you could hide, didn’t you?” Lord Tywin said sounding like the cat that caught the canary.

A moment later since he had been seated further away, Yohn Royce reached them looking surprised at the scene. “What have you done now, Baelish?” the man obviously was not in the mood to give Petyr any quarter.

Lord Tywin took a step back from Petyr Baelish and turned to Lord Yohn, but Brynden didn’t release the boy. “We will discuss this privately,” Lord Tywin told them both.

Bryden looked over to the seat of the king. It was empty and no Kingsguard.

The king was taking a piss then.

The people in the stands were being served refreshments while the dirt fields were being flattened. Now was as an ideal time as any time getting this nonsense sorted out. Lord Tywin was leading the way down into the inside of the stands beneath the spectators, where servants milled through carrying trays.

But once they were past the kitchen and took a corner, the area became noisy from the sheer number of talking spectators above in the stands. The Lord of Casterly Rock opened the door of a wooden room and once all were inside he closed the door while entering himself.

Lord Yohn was the first to speak. “Lord Tywin, Ser Brynden. For the past sennight Baelish has been a clueless fool and a pain in my neck,” the man remarked and looked to each of them in turn. “My cupbearer was absent. That’s my reason. Why were you two seizing him, my lords?”

Brynden intended to hear what Lord Tywin had to say first. Baelish was harassing his niece, but what interest did Lord Tywin have in the boy?

“Forgery,” Lord Tywin replied looking at Bronze Yohn and turned to meet the boy’s eyes. “Writing notes in my name and passing them off as genuine instructions. He’s created a disturbance concerning my house and this boy fits the recipients’ descriptions; all of them commented he had grey-green eyes, some mentioned he looked Braavosi.”

Bronze Yohn shook his head and sighed. Turning to Brynden, the Valeman’s expression was of dread. “Another grievance, I suspect?”

“Yes,” Brynden replied without hesitation. “This boy was instructed to keep his distance from my nieces by my brother for unwelcome advances,” he explained before adding. “Baelish was muttering in her ear and using her height to hide; to me, that spelt trouble. Now slandering my niece’s betrothed? This has gone too far.”

Lord Tywin glanced at Brynden but said nothing.

The Valeman was resting one hand on a sword pommel, tapping it with his finger. “I only accepted the boy as cupbearer as a favour for the father who fought alongside us all in the war. Frankly, I’m regretting it since the beginning of this sennight.” Lord Yohn confided to both of them. “Lord Baelish is reaching limits with the boy’s behaviour, but I have now reached mine.”

That comment brought forth the memory of yesterday’s talk with Lord Tywin, and thoughts of Lady Cersei.

_I can’t see through Lannister doors, but no doubt he’s mad at the girl._

A thought occurred to Brynden and he voiced it while doubting it would amount to anything. “Lord Baelish is annoyed, you’re fed up, Lord Yohn, and he’s a pain in the arse to the rest of us. Toss him in a room and discard the key for all I care,” he said offhandedly.

Bronze Yohn looked at Brynden with a searching eye and shook his head in relief. “Yes, Ser Brynden, that idea has merit and the boy could use some time...Seven Hells, I _will_ do it. He needs experts to analyse his mental health as it is. One morning he can’t remember what happened in the few moons past.”

_And he thinks he was present at events which he was not._

Petyr Baelish did not look panicked like a normal child should; merely watching the three of them talk like Sansa was doing.

Turning his head to Lord Tywin, Brynden saw a gleam in the lion’s eye. “Lord Yohn, I shall take the matter from your hands and keep the father informed,” Lord Tywin phrased like an offer but sounded like a demand. Lord Yohn consented with a nod and left the room with Baelish’s lent surcoat, Lord Yohn’s shoulders looking finally relaxed.

Lord Tywin seemed calmer now that one less person was present; this really made Brynden curious. Could the man have an idea of what the slanderous words about his son were?

_If he does, then how?_

Brynden turned to his niece. “Sansa, what did Baelish say that you decided to slap him?”

“Uncle,” Sansa started as though she was going to deny him. “All it takes one person outside a closed door for rumours to fly. And when rumours start…,” she trailed off and shook her head. “There’s simply no silencing them. It was absurd and offensive, but nonetheless I shall never say it,” she reasoned calmly.

Brynden had hoped that his niece would confide in him the slander; he already knew what it was, but hearing it from her own mouth would have meant she trusted him. However, the matter of rumours wasn’t unwise, for they were beneath the seated people of a tourney. The odds were low, but such a problem only needed one person to spark disaster.

“Very well, Sansa,” he replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. If she heard it she might feel guilty and Brynden didn’t want his niece to think he wasn’t glad of her forethought. “Let’s return to the stands, niece.”

Sansa didn’t follow him out of the room and Brynden turned around upon not hearing her steps. He was about to ask what was going on when she spoke. “I won’t be long, Uncle Brynden,” she reassured him with a small smile.

_I don’t like this._

“Niece,” he said walking up and cupping her shoulders. “What is going on?”

Sansa was looking into his eyes and Brynden didn’t see distress, only love. “Petyr Baelish is slandering Jaime.”

Brynden exhaled through his nose in frustration. “Sansa…”

“It’s slander not worth knowing, Uncle,” she said with pleading eyes. “Five minutes, please. Lord Tywin will want to know what was said true or false regardless.”

He looked Lord Tywin in the eyes and the man’s expression was one of agreement with Sansa. Returning his gaze to Sansa, Brynden reluctantly conceded; he didn’t want to make matters difficult for Sansa concerning Tywin Lannister; the man seemed formidable compared to yesterday’s worn demeanour. “Five minutes, Sansa,” he told her and gave her shoulders a squeeze before leaving the room, closing the door behind him and walking down the hall until it was noisy.

If she had to whisper it into Lord Tywin’s ear, Brynden would prevent anyone from getting near the room. Ser Tygett was rushing in his direction and faltered when he noticed Brynden leaning against the wall and watching the hall.

“Ser Brynden?”

“Ser Tygett,” he replied in kind. “Private conversation in there; my niece and Lord Tywin.”

“You’re not pleased,” Ser Tygett noted before going around Brynden. “The tourney melee will resume in five and ten minutes and I know Tywin’s down here.”

Brynden was going to remind Ser Tygett that it was a private talk, but the man was down the hall and entered without so much as a knock. A moment later he was leaving with Baelish grasped by the shoulder and the knight looking angry.

Watching the pair leave, Brynden turned his head towards the room again and thought about what he’d read from the lips of the boy during the conversation in the stands. Petyr Baelish had spoken of incest to Sansa and it must be wrecking horror inside Sansa’s mind; Brynden knew that it was making him feel ill at the thought.

She had Minisa’s heart, trying to spare him from enduring the scenes currently in his head. As far as she knew, she had, but he wasn’t going to tell her it was for nought.

_How can she be told such a horrifying lie about her betrothed and stand tall with calm?_

When Brynden felt it wasn’t far from five minutes, the door opened and he heard the tail end of their words.

“-misjudged you.”

“Thank you, I do my best, my lord.”

Watching as they were walking in his direction, Brynden stopped leaning on the wooden wall and joined Sansa, paying close attention to her mood and features.

The tension he’d seen in her shoulders since he arrived at Lannisport was gone and her expression looked more natural.

_She’s no longer feeling stressed, but what started it in the first place?_

Sansa was truly fighting for her betrothal to continue on into marriage. She wasn’t telling him the slander that could possibly mean he would tell Hoster and result with an end to the betrothal. The way she had argued last night about staying betrothed to Jaime Lannister showed Brynden just how stubborn she could be, but also her determination about a boy she was already friends with.

She wanted this…

…and the Riverlands needed the ally until the vassal lords were brought in line through Tully marriages.

Once the trio was back up where the spectators were conversing, Lord Tywin turned away and returned to his seat near the king’s while Brynden sat down with Sansa by his side.

There were twenty men down on the field for the final melee.

Prince Oberyn

Ser Elbert Arryn

Prince Rhaegar

Ser Arthur Dayne

Ser Gwayne Gaunt

Ser Kevan Lannister

Bronze Yohn

Lord Steffon Baratheon

And twelve men that Brynden didn’t know the names of.

The horn was blown.

Twenty men burst forward and fought with a vigour that had the crowd shouting support for their favourites.

Sansa was cheering for Oberyn to succeed.

The man was a force to be reckoned with. Today he was armed with a sword and shield and after some careful observation, it became apparent that The Red Viper and Ser Elbert were working together.

The Kingsguard members, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, were major targets and it took one well-placed strike from Ser Elbert to a distracted Gwayne Gaunt to eliminate the man from the competition finale.

It was like a wave the way those attacking Ser Gwayne surged over to Ser Arthur.

As one, Prince Oberyn and Ser Elbert were flanking the remaining kingsguard and struck their pommels against the sides of the man’s helm, who lost balance and fell down.

Everyone turned to a new opponent and the soon-to-be goodbrothers were picking off men and changing to active aggression when a moment called for it.

Now it was Viper, Elbert and Rhaegar that remained.

And all three were fighting both of their opponents and after a few minutes, the silver-haired prince was eliminated from the tourney melee finale.

It was Martell versus Arryn.

Two different styles against one another.

Essosi and Westerosi.

The crowd was enthralled by the unpredictable fight.

The Red Viper fought like a snake with calculated strikes, whereas Ser Elbert used a chain of motions in an attempt to overwhelm Prince Oberyn.

The Prince either darted out of the way or abruptly dodged.

It was going to be a close fight.

Oberyn darted left, feigned right, and struck on the left.

A moment later, Ser Elbert’s tourney sword fell into the dirt.

The stands erupted with cheers.

Brynden clapped along with the crowd until the commotion died down and Prince Oberyn was presented with a white rose bouquet to gift the ‘Fairest maiden’ present with. The prince barely took a moment of searching the crowd before he was climbing the stairs up onto the stands.

The crowd was quiet with anticipation until Prince Oberyn lifted Sansa’s hand. “My Lady Sansa,” he said respectfully with a tinge of mischief. “Would you do me the honour of being my fair maiden?”

Sansa rose to her feet, bobbed a curtsy and accepted the flowers. “I will, My Prince,” she replied politely in the quiet stands.

Oberyn grinned and kissed her knuckles. “Half done. Time to knock a certain someone off his horse, aye?”

“You’re enjoying the idea.”

Oberyn smirked. “Why wouldn’t I, oh fair Sansa?”

Brynden watched as the Dornish prince walked down onto the field and shook hands with Ser Elbert, muttering something with a solemn expression to the man who nodded back. Prince Rhaegar shook hands with the other two before respectfully leaving the field for the jousts; kingsguard following behind him.  

Turning his attention to Sansa, Brynden noticed Sansa’s eyes were roving the crowd.

He drew a conclusion and squeezed one shoulder discreetly. “Ser Tygett took away Baelish if you’re searching for him.” Sansa looked to her uncle and Brynden felt as though he’d guessed right. “I doubt he’s here to bother you again. Remember, Sansa, Tullys shouldn’t fight their battles alone,” he told his niece with a kiss to the forehead. “I will always listen if you have troubles.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Uncle Brynden.”

For just a moment before turning her head away, her eyes looked worried but not about him.


	30. Lannisport Tourney: Joust Finals

CERSEI LANNISTER

_Day 2, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Lying on the wooden bench of her cell, Cersei turned her head towards the sounds of armour and leather shoes. She did not move from the bench for her feet were sore and merely watched a guard escorting that boy from before, putting him into the next cell.

A cage really. The only thing between him and her were bars.

_Serves you right for leaving me here._

Angry with his earlier choice to flee with the key, she didn’t sit up so she could see him from her bench, which was against the rock wall at the back and his cell was past her head.

Silently fuming that even the final shred of hope to escape was snatched away, Cersei didn’t say a word for her throat was painfully dry and the boy wouldn’t be worth it.

She closed her eyes again and feigned sleep, which wasn’t difficult after a lack of real rest.

_The less I see those cursed bars the better._

The boy’s shoes echoed as he approached her cell but she didn’t budge or open her eyes. “Lady Cersei?” he whispered before repeating it slightly louder. “My lady?” When she didn’t react, she heard the sound of his steps move away and a sigh so quiet that Cersei almost didn’t hear.

She heard him pacing within his cell. “I never attended this tourney and neither did Blackfish, yet here I am and so is he. Sansa, Oswell and Joseth Tully never existed, however word has it Minisa Tully lived long enough to deliver twins; not a stillborn child. It shouldn’t be surviving twins,” the boy muttered to himself. “Where did she come from?”

There was a pause in his pacing before continuing his mutterings. “The girl makes no sense; I was certain it was Sansa Stark. She looked the same as she did at that age, yet court-minded. The memory of the supposed kiss would have been welcome. Pity. Mayhaps that short creature ought to have murdered me sooner; a campsite at the Golden Tooth with the Royces? Useless. Fanning Lysa’s interest in me at Riverrun would have served me better.”

_By the Seven, what are you babbling about?_

The boy chuckled to himself. “No matter. I know these people and the goals they desire. Ah, where to start but Tywin Lannister? So concerned about ego he will be thanking me soon enough.”

_Fantastic. I’m next to a lunatic. And he should be begging for my forgiveness._

Cersei deliberately allowed herself to fall asleep to escape this crazed hell she was locked in.

_Father will let me out._

_I am his eldest child._

 

SANSA STARK

Seated beside her uncle in the tourney stands, Sansa focussed on the white rose bouquet in her hands to keep herself from losing her composure.

Littlefinger was in this era too.

Not Petyr Baelish - a persistent boy.

Littlefinger – the schemer with no qualms about killing people to sit the Iron Throne.

The man she had known.

 _But he is confused,_ Sansa remembered. His comments were flawed and made it apparent that he did not recall the recent events she had experienced herself.

He claimed to be present at Cat’s betrothal feast, but he’d been sent away long before it.

He claimed being called a fool by the Royces recently, which Bronze Yohn unknowingly supported when he said Littlefinger had been a clueless fool for the past sennight.

She had an advantage over him because although he’d been making references, Sansa had made no reactions to give her secret away.

_And he doesn’t have six moons of knowledge about what’s changed; all accounts imply a mere sennight. Gossip won’t be difficult for him, but that won’t give him all of the details and it won’t always be accurate._

Sansa looked over to Lord Tywin and saw the man talking to Ser Kevan quietly.

_And Littlefinger has made an enemy of himself to Tywin Lannister, who now has him in the palm of his hands._

That little detail was a comforting truth. Lord Tywin had, in his own way, told her that the Tullys were safe as repayment for her loyalty.

_Lord Tywin’s wrath will be a major obstacle for Littlefinger._

There was one caution Sansa would have to make; if she ever called Littlefinger by that name he would know she was Sansa Stark and result in her concealment being destroyed.

_Who else has memories like Baelish and me? I haven’t seen any proof._

_Baelish practically has nothing to use as power. A minor house and reputation tarnished in three kingdoms._

Sansa was curious about how he came to be here like she had. When Arya, the last of what mattered to her, died in Braavos, Sansa lost the determination to live on; it had been the final straw when she saw the proof, for Arya never parted from Needle in Braavos. Sansa hadn’t killed herself, but the grief or a blade or poison must have.

_How could it be grief after everything else? I must have been killed._

Littlefi- Petyr Baelish would never have done anything remotely like giving up. He cared about nothing aside from achieving his pursuit of power.

Both of them were from the past; she somehow managed to be here in body and soul, while Baelish’s black soul must have pushed aside the one in his younger body.

She had no idea what caused it.

But what mattered now was his presence and knowledge, but it would be of limited use after being caught by Tywin Lannister. No doubt he would escape at some point, for he always managed to manipulate a situation to his benefit, but Lord Tywin wouldn’t forget the jeopardy Petyr’s knowledge could have placed House Lannister in.

It would be a lengthy challenge for Baelish at least. She will use that delay to her advantage.

_For now, I and my family are safe._

Embracing that knowledge, Sansa released a breath and lightly leaned against Uncle Brynden as his hand still rested on her far shoulder. “I love you, uncle,” Sansa spoke softly and felt his thumb rub her shoulder in response.

“And I, you, Sansa,” he whispered against her hair. “You are as much my niece as Cat and Lysa. And like them, I will always help you.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, she relished it and smiled. It had taken time for suspicion to leave Uncle Brynden’s eyes in Riverrun before it changed to respect, but he’d never said ‘love’.

She looked into his eyes when he withdrew and tucked her hair behind her ear. She swallowed and gave a weak smile. “Thank you, Uncle Brynden.”

He smiled back and squeezed her shoulder. “Always,” he replied and straightened in his seat when the jousting bell rang throughout the stands.

Gazing at her white roses, the fragile petals looked like snow to her for a brief moment.  

At the sounds of horses and armour, she focussed on the two competing jousters at their end of the railing.

The first in the lists to compete was Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Tygett Lannister. The kingsguard sure while the Lannister was determined.

The bell sounded and the knights on their majestic mounts held their lances steady.

Lances of both men broke on impact, but no one fell.

Lance after lance they broke but no one fell from their horse.

The sixth was a different story.

_GONG!_

The men charged, determined to win.

Lances struck once more.

One faltered and fell.

The one still seated was Ser Arthur Dayne.

Ser Tygett had fallen.

Rising from the dirt he shook hands with Ser Arthur, who’d dismounted and approached in good sportsmanship.

Both went left through the archway, their horses led by the reins by their squires while the men walked.

The next to compete were Ser Elbert Arryn and a Westerman Sansa didn’t know.

It was over in three jousts.

On the third Westerman adjusted himself in the saddle.

 _GONG_!

They charged.

Elbert Arryn struck with intent.

The Westerman fell.

The next round was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Gerion Lannister.

_I hope Ser Gerion wins._

Ser Gerion was the last Lannister in the running to win a tourney category and looked intent.

He remained in his saddle longer than Ser Tygett.

Lance after lance shattering against jouster armour of both the prince and Ser Gerion.

At impact on gods knew what round, both men faltered but remained in the saddle.

Ser Gerion was truly fighting to win this. Or the prince had weak arms and strong thighs.

_GONG!_

Ser Gerion looked like a lion poised for the kill.

Both struck but one fell.

Ser Gerion fell.

The crowd applauded the prince with fervour, which Sansa merely clapped along with or risk the king’s ire. Meanwhile, her eyes were on Jaime as he led his favourite uncle’s horse by the reins through the exit the others had taken. He seemed a little excited as he did so, but not noticeably so for someone who didn’t know him.

The last round of the quarterfinals was Oberyn and Ser Barristan Selmy.

At the sight of the white cloak on the kingsguard, the crowd cheered his name several times before speaking words in unison.

 

“Barristan the Bold.

Only ten years old;

He jousted as mystery knight.

 

“He looked a bit slim.

Unexpected to win.

Yet struck his opponent just right.

 

“No longer ten,

And won since then.

Ser Barristan’s no easy foe.

 

“He’s here again.

Ser Barristan.

Brace yourself for his blow.

 

“It will hurt.

You’ll kiss the dirt.

A truth that is very cold.

 

“He’s Ser Barristan

Ser Barristan…

SER BARRISTAN the BOLD!

 

Sansa took note that Ser Barristan didn’t preen under the attention as Prince Oberyn would have, but the knight did raise his lance once he reached an end of the railing and the crowd cheered as one.

She looked to the other end.

Oberyn looked at her, then Elia and nodded before turning his focus onto the kingsguard he was competing against.

Mounted on Jaime’s destrier and armoured for the occasion, Oberyn was motionlessly looking at Ser Barristan until receiving his lance.

Uncle Brynden broke her attention. “Think he’ll manage it?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa admitted, turning her eyes back on Oberyn. “He’s been constantly training for this, yes, but is it enough?”

She turned her gaze to her uncle and he shrugged.

Her focus back on Oberyn, Sansa made her final comment. “His pride’s on the line, but both Lannisters fell to their opponents. A young kingsguard and prince is one thing, but a seasoned veteran? May the gods be with him.”

 

OBERYN MARTELL

_GONG!_

His horse was very responsive to the lightest of touches, and Oberyn was charging alongside the railing with a lance lined up and firmly gripped.

He struck and was struck simultaneously.

But he stayed in his saddle.

_If he thinks it’s gonna be easy, Ser Bold has another thing coming._

Both of them received new lances and soon charged again.

The results were the same as the last.

_If it was over quickly it wouldn’t be the finals, would it?_

He was going to have to endure if there was to be a chance in defeating this renowned war veteran.

_Unbowed, unbent, unbroken._

Tilt after tilt, Oberyn struck and was struck by Ser Barristan Selmy, breaking their lances. But neither of them was unhorsed.

There mayhaps be another Dornishman in the finals, but this was personal pride. Oberyn didn’t give a fuck about thirty Gold Dragons; they were a jape when the wager was made. The wager was purely a jape itself.

Lining up for another tilt, Oberyn watched the kingsguard’s behaviour for any indication of fatigue or weakness.

He saw neither.

They charged again and instead of aiming for the chest, Oberyn aimed for the man’s stomach while enduring a blow to his chest.

_Gods, man, what will it take?_

He was beginning to tire but didn’t let that show.

_GONG!_

Aiming for the chest, Oberyn threw everything he had into thrusting his lance.

Their lances broke once more.

And the damned man was still in his saddle.

Watching Ser Barristan Selmy being offered a wineskin by a squire, Oberyn looked to his own and accepted the same offer. He didn’t take overlong to refresh himself but spent more time observing his opponent’s behaviour for any clues.

_Aside from hurting like I am?_

Oberyn had never left his saddle, but Ser Barristan had for his drink and needed to remount. Oberyn watched.

_Whoa, what’s this we have here?_

Both of them received their lances and prepared for another tilt.

Lances gripped and lined up.

Poised to strike.

_I’m a Dornishman._

_GONG!_

Oberyn surged his horse at the last second.

Selmy faltered as did he, but neither fell.

_GONG!_

Oberyn drowned out the crowd’s cheers and focussed on his opponent.

This was his last chance or he would fall, he knew.

He struck.

There was a heavy silence and Oberyn didn’t see until he’d wheeled his horse around at the end. He was too exhausted to bother turning in the saddle.

A squire was holding the reins of the other man’s horse, while the kingsguard himself was getting to his feet; dirt staining his cloak.

_Well, you don’t see dirt on a kingsguard’s cloak every day._

A polite clap was followed by numerous others and Oberyn knew that he had won. Otherwise, there’d be a thundering of feet and cheers for Ser Barristan Selmy. There was a bloody song for the man’s jousting.

Dismounting his horse, Oberyn resisted the groan that was fighting to escape him and approached his opponent. “Ser Barristan,” he greeted and shook his hand. “No injuries, I hope?” he asked genuinely before quirking a smirk. “Will the dirt wash out?”

Ser Barristan looked a little wryly amused. “It will wash fine, Prince Oberyn. And no, no injuries on my part.”

They were going through the exit and come out to the other side where Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Elbert Arryn, along with Prince Rhaegar was resting and refreshing themselves for the semi-finals. A few kingsguards near the prince naturally.

Ser Arthur Dayne demonstrating sword combinations to Jaime Lannister and their uses turned at the sound of their approach. “Prince Oberyn, brother,” he greeted them in turn before focusing on his fellow kingsguard. “That was a long joust, brother,” he remarked not unkindly. “Who won?”

Oberyn caught Jaime’s gaze and raised his eyebrows, and the boy gaped at him for a moment before giving Oberyn a smile.

Ser Barristan answered his comrade. “Prince Oberyn, Arthur. It appears Dornishmen are stubborn fighters.”

Oberyn couldn’t resist the laugh and nor did he try to. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Ser Barristan,” he remarked to the pair before taking a seat and wineskin of water. “Goodbrother,” he called out to Ser Elbert. “Win that crown of winter roses for my sister, would you? I could give them to her, but I’d rather you did now that the pair of you are betrothed.”

Ser Elbert got to his feet as his squire was approaching with his horse. “That was always my intention,” he told Oberyn before mounting his destrier, and Ser Arthur Dayne doing the same with his own mount.

When there were only Oberyn, Prince Rhaegar and the two kingsguards on duty, Oberyn got to his feet and wandered around for a bit until his muscles weren’t so sore. Soon after with an easy smile, he went over to the prince. “It’s us next,” he commented nonchalantly. “Two princes squabbling over a crown. Sweet irony, aye?”

Prince Rhaegar rose from his seat and approached Oberyn. “I suppose it is, Prince Oberyn,” he diplomatically agreed.

Seeing his opportunity to knock some sense into the prince, Oberyn waited a moment until he knew that the Targaryen was listening and what to say without King Aerys potentially getting annoyed. Kings do what they want without consequence, most of the time.

“Let’s talk prince to prince,” he began carefully. ‘Careful’ had never been in his vocabulary but it was now, just for the moment though. “When a lady tells you ‘no’ she could be challenging you to be more persuasive or seductive or both. I’ve had my share of experiences,” he divulged to Prince Rhaegar, who appeared to listen after Oberyn admitted to his past.

One of the kingsguard was a Whent knight and had a look of understanding and calm.

“When a lady is betrothed and tells you ‘no’, that’s a different story, my fellow prince,” Oberyn told Prince Rhaegar. “Short answer; listen to the word ‘no’ and walk away.”

The Crown Prince was looking at him strangely but not one of confusion. “I made a mistake with the Tully girl, I’ve known that for a while now. But why are you telling me this?”

Oberyn didn’t take the step forward that he desired, it could be seen as a threat by the kingsguards. “I wanted to know that you knew. Should my sister’s honour need defending I won’t hesitate to do so.”

Without so much as taking a glance over his shoulder, Oberyn went over to the lent destrier and mounted it.

Coming into the small yard for the joust competitors were Ser Arthur Dayne and Elbert Arryn. His future goodbrother made eye contact and discreetly shook his head.

_Shame that._

 

ARTHUR DAYNE

Upon making sure that Ser Elbert was well, Arthur left the field and noticed that, once again, Jaime Lannister was acting as his squire, the horse’s reins in the boy’s hands.

The first time he discovered the child’s interest in talking to him, Arthur didn’t let it arise to a commotion and gave his servant leave to join the crowd and enjoy the tourney. It made both boys happy and Arthur still had someone to assist him when needs be.

Walking beside the Lannister heir, Arthur had passed through the archway and back into the small yard where Prince Oberyn Martell was striding away from Prince Rhaegar in a serious manner. Watching the Dornish prince, Arthur noticed that the man hadn’t looked back at the Prince Rhaegar once and was soon out of the small yard mounted on his horse.

Arthur made his way over to Prince Rhaegar, who turned towards him instead of mounting his horse for his round against Prince Oberyn Martell. “My Prince,” Arthur greeted with a short bow. “Is all well?”

Being the youngest of the Kingsguard and closest to the prince in age, combined with Arthur’s friendly nature meant the prince saw him as more than merely a kingsguard. Something more in line with friendship, for the prince trusted few people in a social manner to avoid being used in schemes.

Prince Rhaegar glanced at the silhouette before turning his attention back to Arthur. “I believe so. He claimed he would defend Princess Elia’s honour if necessary.”

It took no time at all for Arthur to piece together what Prince Rhaegar wasn’t saying to him. Apparently, the Martell prince dropped a subtle threat to warn the prince away from his betrothed sister. “Sounds like the incident with his friend, Lady Sansa, made him wary of you, My Prince,” Arthur suggested as he watched Prince Rhaegar mount up for the joust. “May the gods favour your hand,” he wished the prince.

 _Hopefully, it_ was _subtle, or there’d be trouble if the king heard._

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He stood for a moment as the prince of an age with him rode off to compete. Once Prince Rhaegar was out of the small yard, Arthur turned towards the stairs where he would be able to discretely witness the princes battle it out to joust in the final round against Arthur.

Prince Rhaegar was, from what Arthur knew, a man of good intentions but lacked knowledge of social cues learnt only from experience; experiences he did not have. He’d had never needed to know how to react to a refusal; people were more than eager to be in his good graces and gave the prince what he wanted.

_This tourney would have been a lesson for the prince._

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any further incidents of a similar nature.

Arthur glanced down at the Lannister heir beside him as they both watched the joust of princes.

Jaime Lannister was an interesting young boy with aspirations to be a knight that truly earnt the title of ‘Ser’. His desire conflicted with the future Lord Tywin had no doubt planned out for him; that of a warden.

The Warden of the West.

_But does the boy know this? He’s determined to be the best, but does he know his future?_

“Jaime,” he said to draw the boy’s attention away from the jousting down below.

The boy was looking his way and Arthur hated himself for needing to do this. “Yes, Ser Arthur Dayne?” was the reply filled with respect.

Arthur made himself level with Jaime Lannister’s eyes and could see the rapt attention the boy was paying him. There hadn’t been a moment when little Jaime didn’t. He hated himself all the more for doing this.

_Just get it done with._

“Do you know what your father plans for you to do, Jaime?” he asked the boy of nearly ten.

_Better a little sadness now than later on with accumulated hope._

Jaime Lannister nodded and for a moment Arthur thought the boy misunderstood. “I know, Ser Arthur,” Jaime replied calm acceptance, but not looking devastated which Arthur had been expecting from a boy determined to be a true knight. “Father wants me to be Warden of the West one day, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop being a knight.”

For a moment Arthur thought he was going to need to give the bitter truth to the boy, but Jaime spoke again.

“I thought I would need to stop too, one day, but I was wrong.”

The answer intrigued Arthur, but that earlier hint of dread remained. “How so, Jaime?”

“When the Westerlands need a knight to protect the people, I’ll go and trust Sansa to look after the Westerlands until I’m back,” he told Ser Arthur to the man’s surprise. “I can still be a knight,” he told Ser Arthur with determination and not desperate stubbornness.

The answer had its merit and was theoretically possible, but would Lady Sansa agree to this? Once a woman grown and married to him she’d have to obey, but what of Tywin Lannister? “That’s a clever plan, Jaime, have you told your father?”

“The plan wasn’t mine. It was Sansa’s idea.” That was a surprising piece of information. At least the girl wouldn’t dispute it when the time came. “If Father ever told me I couldn’t do it, well, he has been Hand of the King and Warden of the West at the same time for years. That’s both sides of Westeros.”

The potential hypocrisy was admittedly amusing for Arthur because Lord Tywin denying his son this would be the epitome of hypocrisy. The other kingsguards often commented on Lord Tywin being in King’s Landing more often than not, even after the death of his wife.

Glad he wouldn’t have to crush the boy’s spirit for knighthood and protecting the innocent, Arthur cupped Jaime Lannister’s shoulder and smiled, which Jaime returned. “Well, Jaime,” he said with a smile, partly for the genius of the betrothed pair, and partly not having to give a bitter truth for most highborn squires. “It seems you know what you’re doing.”

The boy’s face lit up at the praise. “Thank you, Ser Arthur,” he spoke with a bright smile that reached his eyes. “Do you think you could teach me a little more before you go back?” Jaime asked with admiration and hope, so different from the serious talk not a moment ago.

_You easily forget their age when they’re wise._

Arthur had to smile in response to the enthusiasm, whoever gets this boy as their squire would be one lucky bastard. “I’ll try, Jaime. I’m a kingsguard first, so I can’t promise anything,” he reminded the boy, who nodded at his words.

“I understand, Ser Arthur. And Lady Ashara is at the tourney too; your family,” Jaime replied sounding like he was sympathetic at the mention of family.

Surprised by that and not wanting the conversation to become any further grim, Arthur turned the boy by the shoulder to face the jousting again while turning his attention back to it himself. “That’s good, Jaime.”

The boy was interesting; the chivalrous desires of a caring boy, and apparently the known wits of Lady Sansa were influencing him as well. There was no obvious sign he would be another Tytos Lannister.

_So much potential…_

Focussing on the jousting down below to gather knowledge about his next opponent, Arthur observed the princes’ techniques and noticed the way Prince Oberyn’s aim, unlike Prince Rhaegar’s, wasn’t always the centre of the chest. Both princes were putting in every effort.

_GONG!_

The two princes charged once more.

Both faltered within their saddles.

But neither fell.

_This is it. I know it._

_GONG!_

Horses surging alongside the railing.

Lances gripped and steady.

They struck.

The crowd gasped.

Prince Rhaegar had fallen.

_That’s a shame, but the prince has always preferred books over the lance._

There was not a single applause as the men left the field for the small yard; a wise decision, considering the king’s likely reaction to such a thing.

With Jaime close behind him, Arthur went back down to the small yard and mulled over the performance he’d just seen. The final round would be himself and Prince Oberyn, but not just yet. The prince would need a respite after going against Barristan, and then Prince Rhaegar.

To immediately be pitted against a reputed kingsguard, would be akin to cheating by Arthur’s standards; and that was not Arthur’s way.

It was a pity Prince Rhaegar had lost, but Arthur would not exploit a fatigued opponent.

Prince Oberyn would get a respite before Arthur would even consider getting into a saddle.

Sitting down in the shade, Arthur mulled over the best way to defeat Prince Oberyn before deciding to continue jousting as he had always done. It had yet to fail him or risk coming close to failure. Watching the prince, Arthur observed Prince Oberyn for any disadvantages he could exploit. He might refuse to joust a man who’d just finished a hard-won victory without giving the man a rest, but everything else was fair game.

Arthur heard the footwork he’d shown Jaime Lannister but focused on the prince who approached and made himself comfortable in a nearby seat. During his visits to Sunspear, Prince Oberyn had always been good company.

“So…Ser Arthur,” the prince said to him casually, slouching in his seat. “Joined the Kingsguard willing, I hear? Was there ever a time you wanted to avenge some slight I did? Did I slight the Daynes? I’m not sure. Ashara is a beauty though,” he remarked with a dismissively wave.

Arthur bristled at the suggestion of his sister being dishonoured, but he forced himself to relax. The prince was riling him, he knew. His recently-dead brother would have avenged Ashara had anything happened. Ashara was Lady Dayne of Starfall now.

The prince acted like he hadn’t noticed any reaction from Arthur. “But if I ever did, now’s the perfect chance to avenge your family, isn’t it? Knock me off my horse for Westeros to see and get away with it. Win a tourney while doing it. It’d be quite the victory, wouldn’t it?”

During his visits to Sunspear in his youth, Arthur had seen the way that Prince Oberyn was the member of the Martell family to stir trouble. Prince Oberyn was good and teasing company when he or his haven’t been wronged. Light or heavier japing at the expense of others was common of The Red Viper.

_And that’s what he’s doing now._

Meeting the prince’s eyes, Arthur saw the way they shone with mischief and shook his head. “You didn’t slight my house, but the opportunity to knock you on your arse and be rewarded for it is a rather tempting one, Prince Oberyn.”

The prince laughed and took a drink from a wineskin. “I’m glad the Kingsguard hasn’t dried your sense of humour, Arthur. Gods, it’s been years since I last saw you.”

“Mayhaps for the best, My Prince,” he retorted lightly.

Prince Oberyn scoffed and looked back at Arthur. “Oh drop the formality, Arthur. You know I hate it.”

Inwardly, Arthur smirked at getting under Oberyn’s skin and glanced over at the prince. “Of course, My Prince.”

“Alright,” Oberyn said rising from his seat and going to his horse. “Let’s joust so I can get dirt on your pretty cloak, Arthur,” he said with no malice and shooting Arthur a grin. “I had practice with Ser Barristan. Brown suits him, and mayhaps you.”

Arthur chuckled and wasn’t far behind Oberyn. “Barristan called Dornishmen ‘stubborn fighters’, didn’t he? Show me how stubborn you are, Oberyn. Which of us is the more stubborn one, My Prince?”

Oberyn had a wicked grin. “You’re about to find out.”

Together they rode into the field and chose a side for their first joust and the crowd cheered with the deciding round about to begin. It was easy enough to spot his sister, Ashara, as she stood in the stands next to Princess Elia; both women in the colours of their houses.

At the sound of a man bringing over a lance, Arthur accepted it and soon had it in a strong grip for the charge. Down the other end, Oberyn was doing the same.

_GONG!_

They charged and the spectators were shouting encouragement.

Lances broke but no one fell.

_No doubt there are wagers for the final._

_GONG!_

_GONG!_

_GONG!_

_GONG!_

Joust after joust and the two Dornishmen were still on their mounts. There were mutterings from the stands as they received lances for another time. Arthur remembered the long wait for the semi-final between the princes and hoped this would be over before too long.

Tygett Lannister and Elbert Arryn had both put up a fight against him and he was feeling tender in some places despite defeating those two knights with less than six jousts.

But he hopes were dashed.

Joust,

after joust,

after joust.

Oberyn wasn’t giving in or gaining on Arthur. Looking at the prince, Arthur was sure the man’s visible fatigue was similar to what Arthur was hiding.

Three more times and it looked like Oberyn wasn’t far from falling off his horse, Arthur certainly felt ready to but giving up was no option.

Over the duration of the final, he’d been paying attention to the strength of Oberyn’s strikes. After the fifth, the impacts were becoming weaker.

_Let’s end this and get our miserable selves out of here to recover._

Receiving his lance, Arthur gripped it and took aim for the next charge. Oberyn was doing the same but looked weak.

_GONG!_

He charged and was preparing to thrust.

Oberyn’s posture suddenly changed and the man’s lance struck him sharply.

Arthur was spitting dirt out of his mouth seconds later.

_I became complacent._

Learning from his mistake and silently swearing to remember, Arthur made to stand when an outstretched hand came into view.

Oberyn was offering his help, which Arthur took gratefully. “Thanks, Oberyn.”

“You look like shit, Arthur,” the prince remarked casually.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re not dashing yourself, my friend.”

Oberyn snorted and cracked a grin. “No? The ladies like me.”

“Just give the crown, Oberyn,” he muttered as Jaime Lannister approached with Arthur’s horse. “I feel like I’ve been catapulted into the side of the Red Keep.”

The prince had a look of concern and observed Arthur. “Injuries?”

“No,” he denied, mounting his horse with dignity. “Just tender.”

“Hot water for twenty minutes, Arthur,” Oberyn advised once his own horse was brought over.

Rolling his eyes at the man, Arthur threw a smirk. “Aye, Maester Oberyn.”

Oberyn shook his head while accepting a lance with the Crown of Love and Beauty on the end. “Piss off,” he retorted half-heartedly.

Going over to the exit but remaining there, Arthur watched as Prince Oberyn rode over to the section where Princess Elia and Ashara were seated.

Watching as the princess reached out and accepted the title of Queen of Love and Beauty, Arthur smiled as the gentle woman placed the winter roses on her head with modesty and joy.

He knew Elia more than he knew Oberyn.

_She deserves this moment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this made a better tourney chapter than the rest.


	31. Lannisport Tourney: Closing Feast

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 2, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

It was the evening of the tourney’s final day and Tywin was glad that it was; in a few hours those with dignity would make for their accommodations, the heavy wine drinkers would stumble, and a certain king would finally give him a reprieve from all of the barely-veiled insults and suggestions.

In the final joust when it looked as though Ser Arthur would be the sure victor, Tywin believed there would be no incidents at tonight’s feast. However, the cunning of Prince Oberyn won the man the joust and Tywin foresaw a problem he could resolve before it ever started.

The champion of each category would have the first dance with the girl or woman they gifted their flowers to, and Prince Oberyn couldn’t very well do that with both at once. This tradition could be exploited by Aerys for the man’s amusement if Tywin didn’t kill the problem in its crib before the feast.

Refreshed and dressed for the feast, albeit in Lannisport early, Tywin walked down the hall where it was said Prince Oberyn and his company had stayed prior to the tourney. This had to be arranged with discretion and few people aware of it.

Knocking on the door, Tywin could hear the voices of the Dornish guests from within.

“-an ache I can withstand, Ashara. It was worth it for Elia. But to be honest, Elia is worth far more than a winter rose crown,” Prince Oberyn replied to Lady Dayne inside.

Word of Lord Dayne’s death had spread swiftly and the heiress was now the Lady. Reportedly, men and boys were being persistent to win her hand, but the matter was driving the girl to avoid them with a few exceptions.

Hearing the soft footsteps crossing the room inside, Tywin was greeted by the princess who was watchful when their eyes met. Brushing aside the awkward situation of visiting the family he’d slighted, with the offer of Tyrion to this very woman, Tywin spoke as he always did. His son’s and Lady Sansa’s friendships with these people were a personal discomfort for him, but what mattered more was rebuilding the Lannister name with present opportunities.

Personal discomfort was of little importance.

“Princess Elia, I need a word with Prince Oberyn concerning tonight’s festivities,” he said to-the-point and saw the woman glance over her shoulder when her brother muttered something.

Elia of Dorne met his eyes once more. “I imagine this is serious, Lord Tywin. Lady Ashara and I shall give you your privacy.”

“Thank you,” he said with a short nod and watched as the princess and her lady-in-waiting left for the wheelhouse outside.

“Lord Tywin,” the prince acknowledged before finishing his wine. “Dulls the pain,” he said before putting down the goblet. “A long way from Casterly Rock. What brings its lordly lion here? Afterall, I'm a Martell you slight when you desire,” Prince Oberyn remarked with lingering disdain.

“That is no longer true, Prince Oberyn,” Tywin replied without aggression. The Martells and his heir were living reminders of his wife and Princess Mariah - a history that should be at rest like Joanna. “Your victories, while admirable, have created a dilemma that’s easily resolved,” he commented and saw the way the prince immediately met his eyes.

“You must be worried about a simple problem, but I imagine it’s the opening dance,” the prince said without preamble. “Rhaegar Targaryen would step in for the one I don't choose.”

“Traditionally, the crown prince would dance with the other, but King Aerys...,” he said leaving the rest unspoken.

“Would likely order something that would humiliate Sansa, since he hates you and she’s betrothed to Jaime,” Prince Oberyn assumed. It wasn't inaccurate, Aerys would see this as an opportunity to make Tywin look weak at the feast using Sansa Tully; the betrothed of Jaime, a Lannister. Possibly an attempt to enact the past where Aerys had inappropriately danced with Joanna at the wedding…among other things.

“As her betrothed, my son has the right to take your place with Lady Sansa. Will you oppose this?” Tywin said more than asked.

Prince Oberyn didn’t hesitate. “No, I shall not,” the prince agreed. “The discontent between you and the king is no secret. I won't have Sansa used as a cyvasse piece when I can stop it. She deserves an intact dignity.”

It was peculiar to see a man a few years younger than Gerion having such strong loyalty for a girl on the cusp of eleven. But for Lady Sansa to obtain such loyalty at her young age showed she would be a force to reckoned with in the future if she could replicate this.

“I appreciate the cooperation, Prince Oberyn,” Tywin spoke before turning to leave the communal room. “The festivities begin in two hours.”

Walking away from the accommodation of the Martells and Lady Ashara, Tywin made to mount his horse and leave when a young man donned in armour spoke his name from atop a horse of his own. The knight was wearing a white cloak of the Kingsguard.

“Lord Tywin, if you have a spare moment I might have something of interest to talk about,” Ser Arthur spoke politely while he wheeled his horse around until it was beside Tywin’s own.

Such a thing was unusual and raised questions within his mind of what could this man want to discuss. Had it been Aerys demanding his presence, the Dornish knight would have simply said so.

Tywin prompted his horse into a slow walk, which Ser Arthur matched without so much as commenting on it. “What do you wish to discuss, Ser Arthur?” he said, wanting to get straight to the point while the streets were quiet.

“Your son and I conversed during the jousting finals and I have to admit for anyone to have Jaime as a squire would be more than luck,” Ser Arthur began kindly with a calm expression. “I’ve recently heard you intend for him to begin squiring with Lord Crakehall in a few moons. Was this muddled gossip or true? He’s young to begin but has the ability.”

Crakehall’s apparent inability to keep that fact to himself irritated Tywin, but the warden didn’t know what the Kingsguard knight wanted. Tywin wasn’t deaf but it seemed unlikely with a young knight. The discussion so far consisted of favourable words concerning his son, so he limited himself to a scowl that lasted briefly. “You heard true, Ser Arthur, yet why would this interest the newest member of the Kingsguard?” he replied with a question of his own.

The man was the youngest kingsguard in history at the mere age of seventeen, early this very year in fact. A knight rarely took on a squire so soon after obtaining their own knighthood. There were a few ideas that Tywin came up with as to why he was being asked this, but he kept those to himself to avoid making a fool of himself and his house.

Riding the walking horse beside Tywin, Ser Arthur’s expression was wry as he explained. “Yes, I am a new Kingsguard knight, but any knight needs an eye for detail. The enthusiasm and dedication your son has towards truly earning knighthood and learning great swordsmanship is something I have not missed, Lord Tywin.” This confirmed one of Tywin’s suspicions and the next comment was the final nail to his belief. “I’d consider it a privilege if he were to be my squire.”

_Your loose tongue, Crakehall, has been your undoing. Thanks to your gossiping, The Sword of the Morning is now interested and he is a more renowned knight than you._

Tywin in no way appreciated his bannerman’s absent ability to keep information to himself; it was insulting. What House Lannister did and did not do was not to be fodder for wagging tongues, and he would not reward such treatment about Lannister affairs in a positive light.

The unforeseen result of such manners presented Tywin with an opportunity for both prestige and recovery for House Lannister. To accept this offer would assist mildly in making House Lannister great again; currently, it was a financially and militarily strong house that lacked respect from the other Great Houses.

Looking to the knight beside him, Tywin conversed as though he was entertaining the proposal. “As Hand of the King, I have never seen the squire of a Kingsguard knight in the presence of King Aerys. I’d expect the same fact to extend to my son,” he told the knight from what he recalled. “Unless I’ve drawn an assumption?” he dared Ser Arthur to tell him he was mistaken.

“No, Lord Tywin, the squires never are unless demanded by the king,” the knight confirmed, which Tywin had already known as Hand for thirteen years. “King Aerys has never ordered for such either from my understanding.”

He did not nod, but Tywin agreed. “He has not once ordered for it with myself present, Ser Arthur.”

His son at King’s Landing as the squire of the Sword of the Morning would not remain secret for long once his son began. The position as the man’s squire would hold only a small amount of weight, but power was not Tywin’s primary concern since he already had it in the form of his own titles.

No, Jaime granted training under the tutelage of The Sword of the Morning would portray House Lannister was a house still worthy of respect and regard. So long as his son acted with the pride and self-respect of a true Lannister in King’s Landing, the house could begin its climb back towards a position of import in Westeros.

If his son ever began to fail this task of honouring House Lannister with this privilege, Tywin would be there to straighten his son out and back onto the path of success. 

For once in a very long time, Tywin was glad he was still the Hand of the King. The title had its own power, but the addition of moulding his son to regain their house its pride was indeed rather satisfying.

This endeavour would have its risks as well. His son was the only heir to Casterly Rock and Tywin would need to play a cautious hand. King’s Landing was how word of anything significant would spread rapidly, but it was also the residence of Aerys and other members of the royal family.

Aerys currently aspired for House Targaryen to be feared in the same manner as Tywin’s rule of the Westerlands. Recently, the king had taken to ruling with an uncaring hand and condemning any discontent citizens to death. Not gruesome methods, Tywin suspected they eventually would become just that, but death all the same.

The situation was not yet common knowledge beyond the Kingsguard knights and the Hand of the King.

Tywin had no intent of his son getting tangled in the perilous politics that was Aerys Targaryen. At the slightest whiff that Aerys intended to make Jaime a knight of the Kingsguard, Tywin would send his son home on the fastest horse. He’d be damned if he lets Aerys finish the destruction of House Lannister that Cersei begun.

Jaime was the heir and only heir to Casterly Rock; his son would become a knight as Tywin once had before becoming the Warden of the West.

Tywin would do what it took for his son to properly succeed him once age or wound took Tywin like his fathers before him.

One misstep in King’s Landing would have too high a price to accept and Tywin would fight every inch for it not to happen.  

His son would not be killed or on the Kingsguard; neither of these would happen so long as Tywin still breathed.

The voice of Ser Arthur drew Tywin from his thoughts and plotting. “What do you say to my proposition, Lord Hand?”

_What anyone with wits would say._

“My son will be your squire when the seventh moon nears,” Tywin answered with certainty. “He was personally invited and will represent my house at the Arryn-Martell wedding in the meantime so as not to insult those houses. I imagine House Dayne will have its own representative there.”

Ser Arthur’s expression was one of satisfaction and understanding. “Of course, Lord Tywin. Ashara will be attending as House Dayne since I cannot,” the knight replied calmly with a pleased look in his eye. “I look forward to passing my knowledge onto your son, Lord Tywin. I doubt I will regret it.”

_I’ll make sure you won’t, but my son’s aspirations have mostly done that for me already._

_Never had I believed my son could have created a desire within the Sword of the Morning to train him._

Tywin honestly had never considered such a thing. His son had always paid more attention to swordsmanship than anything else.

_Apparently not._

_He’s unknowingly making connections with important people._

The knight left in the direction of the Martell accommodations while Tywin dismounted his horse and entered Lannisport Castle, where his son and Lady Sansa were spending time in one of the upstairs guest suites. The ground level was reserved for the king, the Kingsguard and other families of significance. Namely the Great Houses with the exception of the Martells, who’d chosen to find their own rooms elsewhere.

Approaching the upstairs guest suite where he'd left his son and Lady Sansa in the care of Gerion, Tywin entering the lavish room saw his youngest brother, which sparked the memory of the conversation he'd had with Prince Oberyn.

Loyalty.

Prince Oberyn displayed quite the commitment to being protective of Lady Sansa and her political welfare. There’d been no forced manner in which Tywin had seen it.

Just looking at her, Tywin remembered the way she'd struck the Valeman boy for uttering dangerous truths about House Lannister. Ser Brynden had attempted to know what was said but was denied by his niece in a way that convinced the man to abandon his questions.

She had an unwavering loyalty to his son; she was going to kill that Baelish boy to protect Jaime’s reputation. She hadn't known she was being watched by Tywin and was going murder Baelish for his son's sake until she’d spotted Yohn Royce's approach; thank the gods.

_She is too far an asset to lose and she would have lost everything had she been caught._

_That had not been an act, but authentic loyalty; albeit foolish._

He was going to have to treat her like an ally and not a liability to House Lannister if that loyalty was to last.

The first concern Tywin intended to discuss with her, before both Lady Sansa and his son departed for the Vale, was how to handle situations of similar natures properly. She must have panicked and not considered the consequences of her planned actions when the Valeman boy was speaking to her.

Gold can buy silence for a short time, but death bought silence permanently. She seemed to know this concept since she hadn’t attempted offering gold, but had yet to learn how to properly employ it. It wasn’t something you teach a mere girl but her age was beguiling of what resided within her mind.

There was something of greater concern, however. If she hadn’t uttered the words originally and was willing to kill to keep the past hidden, who had told the boy?

It couldn’t have been the knights from that day in the sept, Tywin had seen to that permanently. Septa Felys had sworn before the Seven as the High Septon also had – such devoted people wouldn’t break their word. He’d threatened to harm Lady Sansa’s family, and he saw her protect the secret with his own eyes today. His son was no fool either.

 _Servants._ Tywin concluded. There simply were no others who could have known about it. The Baelish boy had been said to have lurked within Casterly Rock according to Kevan, who was told by the servants his brother lightly questioned. Interrogating the entire staff of Casterly Rock would only alert the few and they’d likely flee to locations unknown.

The lesser of two risks was to keep the servants fooled into thinking their gossiping was unknown. Attempting to draw the few from the woodwork would only validate the truth of their words.

_Cersei is a danger. It has not escaped me how she is obsessed with my son. She could have very well been the source within Casterly Rock. The plans must be hastened and proceed tomorrow. Neither of them can remain in Casterly Rock._

Going over to a desk in the suite and writing a quick note for Kevan, Tywin sealed it and looked over to the three children on the balcony. Jaime, Addam Marbrand, and Lady Sansa. “Marbrand,” Tywin spoke, drawing the attention of all three children. The page came over and took the note Tywin was holding out. “Take this to Ser Kevan in this castle and return here.”

Marbrand did as he was bid and nodded to the goodbye uttered by Jaime before going out the door.

Once the door was closed, Tywin didn’t immediately approach his son. His error yesterday of being too harsh with the choices he presented his son had created distrust within Jaime, but the boy was not yet hostile.

He needed Jaime’s cooperation now more than ever with his son going to King’s Landing to squire for Ser Arthur. There was too much risk in an ignorant child, so he would prepare his son for it instead.

Tywin had never acted like that of a father, but now he had no choice in the matter and must for the good of the family. The house that always put family first will always prevail against a house that complied with the whims and wishes of its members. A good man does everything in his power to better his family’s position, regardless of his own selfish desires.

Sitting down on a broad seat that faced another, Tywin turned towards his son on the balcony. “Jaime,” he said firmly as was his norm. Jaime turned from Lady Sansa and met his gaze for a moment before taking the other seat. Lady Sansa had not lingered on the balcony and left the room in Gerion’s company.

Paying attention in the same manner as this morning in Tyrion’s bedchamber, Jaime replied similarly. “Father.”

Having expected as much of a response from his son, Tywin reined in his tempting scowl and focussed on the matter at hand. “You will be squiring for another man instead of Lord Crakehall.”

Jaime’s behaviour was immediately one of listening and caution. There was also distrust and the tells of bracing for bad news. “I’ll be squiring next year after all, won’t I?” Jaime guessed with eyes showing traces of loathing.

He needed his son’s trust and that loathing would do no good for his son. Tywin lifted his son’s chin so their eyes met. “No,” he answered firmly and saw Jaime’s surprise. “This year, Jaime,” he corrected and maintained eye-contact. “You will be squiring at King’s Landing.”

It was clear Jaime was confused and Tywin let go of Jaime’s chin. “King’s Landing?” Jaime repeated, looking around the chamber as though the answer was hidden within. “But…who would want to? Who would agree to?” his son asked trying to make sense of Tywin’s answer. “I don’t understand.”

The loathing was abating but not fully gone. Tywin watched Jaime’s expression remain as confusion. “Despite your age, Ser Arthur Dayne has made it clear he desires for you to be his squire.”

Jaime looked shocked and stared at his father for over a minute before his eyes grew solemn. “This is a test, isn’t it?”

“No, Jaime. It is not,” he said without hesitation, he needed his son to know this was no falsehood or test. “You will go to King’s Landing after the Arryn wedding and become the squire of Ser Arthur Dayne.”

His son’s reaction was not what he’d expected. Jaime’s arms were tight around Tywin’s middle. “I never thought…I’ve dreamt...,” Jaime rambled before realising what he was doing. “Oh.”

But Tywin didn’t give his son the chance to pull away and rested an arm across the boy’s back. This was not what he’d normally do, but the future of the family rested on Jaime surviving the machinations of King’s Landing. “I need you to understand something, Jaime. Yes, I agreed to permit you squiring for Ser Arthur, but King’s Landing is dangerous. You must be careful and never show weakness.”

Clearly not understanding, Jaime met his eyes again. “Dangerous?”

“Yes, certain people with power will use you against me given the opportunity. Every person there wants to be more powerful than the rest and will do what it takes to be so,” Tywin warned his son.

Jaime became worried. “What would they do, Father?”

“Jaime, you can protect yourself by remembering a few things,” he told Jaime. “Drink only water to keep your mind clear. If an action they ask doesn’t sound right, leave but don’t tell them you refuse, instead pretend to agree and come to me. And finally, if someone mentions your name when talking about future knights of the Kingsguard, tell me.”

His son took a breath and met Tywin’s eyes again. “Water, tell you strange things and the Kingsguard,” his son summarised to him. “I don’t want to be a Kingsguard knight.”

_Thank the gods for that._

Tywin had not neglected to consider the prestige of the Kingsguard to possibly lure his son in; it was relieving to hear his son verbally oppose such a future.

“What about Tyrion?”

He had to swallow a groan or risk ruining everything built with his son just now. The dwarf would never be brought to King’s Landing. Hovering opportunity of mockery in front of Aerys like that was asking for trouble and humiliation at court.

Jaime said more about the dwarf. “I don’t mean court, but he’d be alone here at Casterly Rock. I saw Cersei in the dungeons. Riverrun, at least?” his son suggested sounding sympathetic about the stunted toddler with the Lannister name. “Edmure Tully was nice to him.”

Tywin was inclined to believe Tyrion was the child of Aerys considering the deformities often found in Targaryen babes. Not only that, but the toddler had whiter hair than Jaime and Cersei, and the supposed time of conception placed Aerys in the proximity of Joanna.

He did not understand his son’s affection for the dwarf after everything. He made no promises to Jaime. “I’ll see what can be done.” _Or not done._ Tywin wasn’t going to strain himself or the position of his house if the Tullys refused.

There was a final matter he wanted to discuss with Jaime before leaving for the feast. “Jaime, when Prince Oberyn rises to dance with his sister, you will need to dance with Lady Sansa…”

 

SANSA STARK

In the Dining Hall of Lannisport Castle, Sansa was talking to the riverlords she’d met at Catelyn’s betrothal feast some moons ago. She recalled which ones were dedicated in their loyalty to House Tully, which wasn’t a great many with their attention centred on land disputes.  

Those nearest to Riverrun were the houses that Sansa felt she could trust the most. Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest, Grell, Lychester, Shawney, Goodbrook, and Whent, who was the only exception concerning distance.

Although she was gathering information by phrasing her questions as conversation and slowly prying the knowledge about each house, Sansa had to admit that she knew more about lesser houses of the Vale and the North. Those kingdoms had played a larger role before.

Not too far away from her was Uncle Brynden, who was also interacting with Riverlands houses. Watching him while having some water, Sansa noticed the way he was looking at the backs of certain families with a critical and considering eye. Sansa was unsure what that was about, but those same houses did happen to be those squabbling about lands.

She spotted a sigil she would never forget and watched as a Frey approached her.

The feast was, after all, open to all houses that spectated at the tourney since the opening feast.

“Lady Sansa, my grandfather sends his apologies for not attending Lady Catelyn’s betrothal feast,” the boy of an age said to her.

_I highly doubt that he does._

Sansa responded with an equally false comment. “I must apologise, but I am still learning some of the sigils. Which house does yours represent?” she spoke innocently.

The boy was flustered and offended. “House Frey, my lady. My name’s Walton Frey; the fourth son of Lord Walder Frey’s eldest son, Stevron Frey. How could you not know my sigil?”

“I am learning the sigils of two kingdoms, my lord, I pray you understand,” she lied straight to his face with her courtly mask and no regrets. “How are matters at The Crossing?” she prodded, hoping he would reveal something to her.

Her interest in discussing his home seemed to cool his irritation and he took a drink of wine. “Babes and toddlers screaming in too many rooms. My uncles and half-uncles, their babes. The Lord of the Crossing has his fourth wife with child again.”

“So many? I hope he has time for all of you,” Sansa wished him as though she truly meant it. Inside, there wasn’t a trace of care within her. Robb and Lady Stark, she would never forget what the Freys and Boltons did to them. Until she saw a difference in them as she now did in Lord Tywin, she would think of them as she remembered them.

Walton Frey snorted. “We’re all competing for it. Be glad your father had only six, my lady. At The Crossing, you have many half brothers and sisters to vie for any attention from Walder Frey, for merely a moment of it.”

It was clear to Sansa that House Frey was mainly held together by Walder Frey being the ancestor to all that reside there. Sons, daughters, their spouses, apparently, as well as their children lived at The Twins. That was an environment just waiting for the destruction caused by its very self.

House Frey should be called House Cards, since there were so many of them pursuing to win Lord Walder’s favour both now and from her memory of gossip.

All it would take was one card tilting wrongly for it to tumble into a mess of a conflict.

Sansa turned her attention towards Walton Frey as a plan formed in her head. “Currently Lord Walder is the Lord of The Crossing, but someone else will be one day. But with so many heirs he’ll likely choose someone to succeed him. Someone he likes…remembers…he’ll choose someone.”

Walton Frey looked at her and Sansa watched as her words were sinking in. “You don’t know that,” Walton commented, but his voice didn’t dispute what she’d said.

“If he doesn’t choose someone as a clear heir, everyone will be fighting over who takes the seat.”

“Our family tree is complicated…” Walton slowly admitted to her, but anyone knew that the Frey tree was a headache. “People would fight. Grandfather will need to choose,” he agreed with her.

_He’s taken the bait._

Sansa kept her expression neutral. “The Frey that Lord Walder remembers best would likely be chosen. I imagine all of his wives and their babes would make it difficult.” Walton was thoughtful and she continued. “Prove you can be a lord, as I am proving I can be a Great Lady, and you could be the next Lord of the Crossing.”

The desire for the title was very apparent in the young man’s expression. “I know I can be a vassal lord. Lord of the Crossing,” he said as though tasting the title. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“Prove to him you’re the right heir, the best, and you could be.”

Walton looked distant before he smirked. “I can think of a way.”

“I wish you good luck, my lord,” she said with a flourished curtsy and was offered a goblet by a servant before she could walk away.

“I don’t need luck, Lady Sansa,” Walton Frey commented before walking away with a swagger.

Feeling a little sick with herself about doing something that was exactly the kind of thing Petyr Baelish would do, Sansa went for a walk in the gardens and after a small while found a nice and secluded place to wash the conversation from her mind’s forefront using memories of pleasant times.

However, her peace was interrupted by a strange squat woman with yellow eyes and pale green jowls walking up to her side without a sound. “Westeros turned white; too divided to fight. But he and she are back; ambition neither of them lack. One more is home; a land of white it roams. On Westeros all three will stay, no matter how the future strays. One drop of blood and I’ll say more; make haste before a king walks through a door.”

Not sure what to say to this woman who clearly was not a feast attendee, Sansa pretended to believe her and nicked her pinkie with a knife. She waited for the woman to speak are swallowing Sansa’s blood.

“Three questions, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa flinched at the use of her former name and felt her face drain of colour. With limited time, she struggled to quickly think of what mattered most.

“Who is the third person?”

“No one.”

Sansa’s heart constricted at the possibility, but she had to be wise with her questions. “Can I save Westeros?”

“Not alone.”

The short-worded answers were so frustrating.

“What allies do I tell?”

“One wolf.”

Sansa looked away for a second and turned back to see she was once again alone.

_Who was that woman? And everything was vague. Arya would have found me if she was back. Sent a note, or something! By the gods, there are songs about me._

_Arya was smart, she would have found me._

Walking through the gardens and making her way back to the feast, Sansa noticed her uncle was doing the same in the company of a lady dressed for the feast. A woman with a Riverlands sigil, Darry, and she looked nothing like the other that had approached Sansa.

This was Cynthea Darry, a woman she’d met at Catelyn’s betrothal feast.

Immediately her thoughts about House Darry turned to what happened at Castle Darry.

Lady’s death.

Feeling melancholy about Lady, Sansa forced herself to put the emotion away for now because the king and Prince Rhaegar entered the Dining Hall and took their seats on the dais. Witnessing Elia and Oberyn approach the dance floor, Sansa was unsure of what to do until she felt a hand the size of her own leading her onto the floor.

Jaime.

Sansa didn’t know what Jaime and Lord Tywin had discussed, but Jaime taking the initiative to take her onto the dance floor without a by-your-leave from Oberyn felt like it had been organised. Dancing the steps of the song, Sansa glanced over Jaime’s shoulder and noticed Lord Tywin looking satisfied while King Aerys was displeased.

_Why me? I know they don’t get along, but why would I matter to the king?_

Already bothered enough by that woman in the gardens and the thoughts of Lady, Sansa focused on the opening dance with Jaime.

The song was getting to the complicated part and Sansa could see that Jaime was getting a little nervous. “I know this dance well, Jaime,” she ensured him. “I’ll lead this next part, but don’t remove your hands.”

The pace of the music was increasing and Sansa quirked a smile at Jaime, which made him relax a little.

_Perfect._

Taking the lead with discretion and looking as though Jaime was guiding her steps, Sansa kept her expression calm and happy to give him confidence.

Once they were through the series of quick small steps, she felt Jaime retake the lead and didn’t resist it. “Thank you, Sansa,” he spoke with a relieved smile.

Chuckling, Sansa let the feel of the music soak her like it was water and her steps lost their stiff feeling. “Don’t give me all of the credit, Jaime. You did well with following my cues.” Jaime looked away for a second and she changed the subject to something of humour. “I’m surprised you honoured the wager with Prince Oberyn using the opening dance.”

“Well, I did make a wager with him. Father told me to be your partner for the opening dance,” Jaime admitted and paused for a second. “Something about tradition and the prince,” he said quietly.

Glancing over in the direction of said prince, Sansa noticed that Prince Rhaegar wasn’t acting the same way he had been at the opening feast. He’d been persistent before, but now he was just watching the dancing pairs like everyone else except a displeased king.

Dismissing the thoughts, for now, Sansa prepared herself for the assisted jump in a few seconds and landed on her feet with balance.

Jaime seemed to find something funny. “You really like the dancing at feasts, don’t you?”

Heat rose to her cheeks, for she hadn’t expected her enjoyment to be so obvious. “Yes, it’s a moment when you don’t have to worry about anything else. Do you practice? You’ve never stepped on my toes once.”

She watched as he hesitated in his answer, looking unsure how to speak. “Not a lot,” he told her. “It’s footwork mostly and a good swordsman needs good footwork.”

As the music came to a stop, Sansa curtsied as expected and felt lips brush the knuckles of her hand. From the corner of her eye, Oberyn and Elia had been doing the same. Despite not being the only pair, it had felt personal to Sansa, but she doubted it meant the same to a genuine boy of nine.

Leaving the dance floor and taking her seat on the dais, Sansa took a portion of what dishes she desired and waited until Jaime’s uncles and aunt had also been served.

The King of Westeros didn’t follow such etiquette and was already eating; Prince Rhaegar had not and was waiting.

Improved behaviour or not, Sansa still had her reservations about being friendly towards the prince that would throw the realm into war for Lyanna Stark.

_Now that Elia is marrying Elbert Arryn, who will the prince marry?_

The change in Elia’s fate, or so Sansa hoped, presented an interesting question and made her wonder just how different the future would be.

That woman in the gardens had said a sentence that hadn’t left her mind after she’d disappeared from sight.

_“…On Westeros all three shall stay, no matter how the future strays...”_

What had her so confused was the answer to who the third person was. Did she mean Arya by saying ‘No one’? Or that it wasn’t a person?

_I don’t know…_

“Sansa?”

Looking up, she saw that Jaime was worried and gave him a smile. “I’m alright.”

Jaime wasn’t convinced. “Really? You seemed unhappy.”

“Just…a little stressed,” she finished lamely. It was getting harder to lie to him without guilt gnawing at her.

Taking her hand, Jaime had both around hers. “Father told me what you did for me.” The comment surprised Sansa and she didn’t dare breathe a word. “Thank you, but you must be careful,” he whispered.

“I panicked,” she responded in kind. Never had she considered Petyr Baelish returning as she had and as a result wasn’t ready to combat such a problem carefully.

“So would I, Sansa. But imagine if you did it?”

She knew exactly what the consequences of killing Petyr in the stands would have been. It was only after the fact that she realised that such actions would have cost her, her family, and ultimately Westeros. She would be useless to the realm without a position of power or influence.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly.

Jaime rose from his seat once Sansa had finished her food and offered her his arm. “Another turn on the floor, my lady?” he suggested with a small smile. Accepting the arm and his lead, Sansa was glad to get away from the Mad King that didn’t yet seem mad. Once they were dancing again, Jaime whispered in her ear. “Thank you, Sansa. I’m glad you were looking out for me. I swear I told no one about…that other thing. It wasn’t me.”

“I know you didn’t. Your father would have had you promise not to tell anyone.”

Jaime pulled away from her ear and smiled before his eyes saw something or someone that made him grin. “I haven’t told you about Ser Arthur yet, have I?”

This caught her interest. “No, what about him?”

“I’m going to be his squire after the wedding,” he divulged. “Ser Arthur Dayne, he asked for me. I couldn’t believe it.”

Although happy for Jaime’s fortunate change, Sansa was concerned about what this could lead to. “He’s a good knight,” she acknowledged with a quick smile. “But you must be careful in King’s Landing. I’ve heard things.”

_Experienced, but all the same._

Jaime nodded but didn’t look surprised by Sansa’s comment. “I know. Father said the same thing and told me what to do there.” Shrugging, he continued leading her and relaxed while Sansa was only calm on the outside. “It will be a while anyway.”

“Yes, it will be,” she agreed. “I’m happy for you, Jaime.”

After the dance, they each went in their own directions. Jaime talked to that Marbrand boy while Sansa was conversing with the children roughly of an age with her. Robert Baratheon was a displeasure, Stannis was formal, Eddard was polite and treated Ashara honourably after scolding Robert again. Cat was talking to the heir of lesser lords from other kingdoms.

Sansa did the same as her sister and time passed faster than she thought. The music was getting slower so people deep in their cups wouldn’t trip and fall.

The feast was going well into the night which was making the Dining Hall rather warm with all of the people present and breathing the same air. Needing to cool down and desiring some peace and quiet, Sansa walked through the doors of the Dining Hall that lead out to a nurtured garden and took a seat that wasn't too far away. 

The snowfall that the Westerlands received in winter was a light and pleasant relief which cooled her skin where it landed. 

Closing her eyes, Sansa focused on the feeling and instinctively thought about Winterfell.

The crests, dips and moors of the land of the North were blanketed thickly with snow. The sky constantly giving the North the snow it was known for. The candlelight in the distance hinted that Winterfell was close, but too far just yet to see its shape. 

It was getting larger as the trees were disappearing and soon her home came into view the way she remembered leaving it for King's Landing, so long ago. Except instead of summer snows, the land had the snows of winter. It looked ethereal, peaceful even. 

There was no black markings of fire, no uneven stone or other clues of major repairs after the deeds of the Greyjoys and later the Boltons. 

It was the way Winterfell should be.

Untouched and graced with the North's winter snow.

She'd never seen it like this as a child and wished she had.

It was no majestically large castle, but Winterfell had its own brand of enchanting beauty with its surrounding snow. 

It felt as though her body was thickly covered with that very snow along with the chilly winds of winter running over her.

Many would think her crazy to appreciate such a feeling but she didn't care. This was her home. This was where she belonged. This was the place she desired to be.

_Winterfell is my home._

Opening her eyes, she wiped away a tear and refused to cry. Rising from her seat, Sansa saw there was a sprinkle of snow on her shoulders and brushed it off before going inside.

It would be getting too late for a person of her perceived age soon. Uncle Brynden would be taking her back to the chamber shared with Cat.


	32. Wolfsblood and Wife

LYARRA STARK

_Day 3, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

The day the Lannisters departed from Riverun for the tourney, so had the Starks but for Winterfell; a far longer distance to travel, but advantaged by the use of no wheelhouses.

_That choice had been a mistake. Why did I have to be so stubborn and restrict our journey to horses?_

When Lyarra began the journey home with Lyanna, Brandon and Ned in tow and protected by the soldiers who’d served as their retinue, she couldn’t have foreseen the consequences of not using a wheelhouse for the family. The choice of no wheelhouse was for a more productive journey which required less time.

_I did not consider the potential for increased stress._

Lyanna had not taken well to the solid verdict that House Stark would not be attending the Tourney of Lannisport after the displays and behaviour that embarrassed Lyarra; acts that Lyarra refused to risk occurring again but at a significant event such as the tourney to honour Prince Viserys. All the Great Houses of Westeros.

_To call her behaviour ‘not taking it well’ was quite the understatement._

All of her children had been excited for this tourney, including Ned who was the quite one of her children. Luckily, Lyarra and Ned encountered the Arryn retinue at Harroway, who permitted Ned to attend the tourney by travelling with the Arryns.

Had Lyanna and Brandon been present to witness the change of Ned’s attendance, their reactions to it were a guarantee to another embarrassment. Instead, when she spoke with Lord Jon at Harroway, Lyarra was subjected to a different form of embarrassment.

_“I saw them blazing a trail at Crossroads Inn a day ago,” Lord Jon commented, looking concerned. “What was their rush to the North and not the Westerlands?”_

_At least they were going back north, she thought to herself and conjured a lie. “Lyanna has Red Spots and we won’t risk the health of other houses by attending the tourney. Adults are susceptible to it if they didn’t experience it as a child,” she told the lord, deliberately failing to explain the haste._

_“Very honourable of you, my lady.”_

She hadn’t stayed at Harroway for long and rode in pursuit of Lyanna and Brandon.

Lyanna had taken off on her mount, and Brandon promised to protect her before doing the same himself.

She hadn’t seen her children since Riverrun and hadn’t heard about them since Harroway. The Kingsroad bypassed The Crossing and Greywater Watch, and Lyarra highly doubted Walder Frey would have been of any help.

According to the horseshoe tracks Lyarra had looked at near the Crossroads Inn she could tell they were deep yet wet from melted snow. This had meant her son and daughter were riding at the pace of a horse and rider conditioned for high speed. Such speed could only be maintained by horse and rider for five consecutive days before needing recovery by means of slow riding for a day.

Lyarra, on the other hand, had been taught the wisdom of her mother’s clan, Clan Flint of the mountains, which resided north of Winterfell.

And something she had not yet taught her children.

The importance of moderation for any manner of endurance.

She’d been riding in pursuit of her children for forty-one days, but at a pace her horse and mounted soldiers could maintain with a day of slightly slower riding on every sixth. Stark personal horses were fit to run at fifty miles a day maximum and that was reportedly her children’s pace based on when Lord Jon sighted them at Crossroads Inn. Every sixth day the horses of her children would need to slow to eightteen miles a day to recover before galloping for another five days.

Lyarra was riding at forty miles a day, and on every sixth day was giving her horse a mild respite by riding at thirty miles a day.

Her speed was slower than the children, but the reward for not choosing to use her horse’s fastest speed was that her horse could maintain a relatively fast pace the entire time.

The prediction she’d made of the North’s winter snowfall combined with exhausted horses slowing Lyanna and Brandon down had appeared accurate.

When she’d passed through Moat Cailin the small group of Stark men inside the castle waiting to join escorting her told Lyarra had only missed them by a sennight. As expected, Brandon’s and Lyanna’s horses evidently couldn’t maintain their speed at all and were limited to a pace of twenty-four miles a day or less. North of Moat Cailin the snow was rather thick, which would slow her children down further; approximately eighteen miles a day.

Lyarra, on the other hand after Moat Cailin, could continue riding her horse at a productive pace of thirty miles a day instead of forty. The mother wagered her children were two hundred miles ahead of her, unable to check any tracks due to the snowfall. Logic dictated that Lyanna and Brandon’s horses would be too exhausted to go any faster than eighteen miles a day in the snow.

Currently, Lyarra was halfway between Moat Cailin and Winterfell; a journey of roughly sixth hundred miles in total with three hundred remaining. To charge her horse at its fastest speed was a constant temptation to be closer to her children, but to do so would ultimately increase the distance they were apart.

However, there was the reassurance that she’d sent a raven to Rickard many sennights ago when she was in Harroway. Her husband had sent men to be Lyanna’s and Brandon’s escort once they encountered them on the Kingsroad. The men at Moat Cailin had been part of that group.

Lyanna and Brandon would not be as alone as the pair likely expected when Lyanna first gallivanted from Riverrun.

Having eaten breaking of fast and put her sleeping furs in the saddlebags after men dissembled the tent, Lyarra mounted her horse and continued the pursuit of her children on the final stretch to Winterfell. It would take roughly two sennights in the thick snow but Lyarra would do her best.

She’d never felt so humiliated.

 

  _Day 4, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Approximately halfway between Moat Cailin and Winterfell, Lyarra dismissed half of her escort and the whole retinue to ride on and ensure her children were safe. The men’s horses were fresh whereas her’s was tired and her children’s were most likely exhausted and physically limited to walking.

They would need the protection far more than she did, regardless of being closer to home.

A company of six men made her feel more comfortable about returning to Winterfell like this. An escort of twelve was too much for just one woman. Six would be sufficient against any problems if they occurred.

_Unless it was the Boltons._

However, ambushing Lady Stark so close to Winterfell seemed foolish to Lyarra, so she wasn’t too concerned. Bandits wouldn’t have such qualms, but bandits weren’t men trained to defeat highly-skilled soldiers. Her escort would be capable of fending off anything when considering where she was and the direction they were riding.

She would have much to say to Lyanna once they were both in Winterfell.

Like yesterday, now that she had supplies, the midday meal was had in the saddle while the horses slowed to a walk as a reprieve from running through the snow. It was a relieving change from the need to hunt and cook the meat; eliminated by Rickard sending salted meat with his men. Comforts weren’t what Lyarra appreciated about the gesture, but rather the benefit of not needing to stop and waste time that could be spent pursuing her children.

_I can’t believe this entire drama happened. I didn’t raise my children to be like this._

Looking around from the saddle, Lyarra gazed at the snow, trees, and the hills in the distance. At least her children were in the North.

She spotted movement.

Walking several hundred paces away, with its attention facing forward, was a creature travelling parallel to her escort.

Lyarra heard the sound of a blade being drawn and in an instant, the creature fled like its life depended on it.

_Such reactions are only developed from experience. I’ve never seen the behaviour of the like._

Turning her head towards the soldier who’d done it, Lyarra did not scold the man. “It was doing no harm,” she kindly pointed out.

“Not now mayhaps, Lady Stark, but best to err the side of caution.”

No one could argue with such a reply.

She pondered on the creature’s behaviour for the rest of the day.

 

_Day 5, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Another day of riding had gone by and Lyarra hadn’t seen the creature at all; but what reason would it have to flee at the sound of a sword being drawn?

Dismounting her horse and assisting the men in setting up camp and tents for the night, Lyarra set out her extra furs to keep her warm when she rested later. Quickly seeing to rubbing down her horse, she shook her head and buried herself in the furs within her tent.

 

_Day 9, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

It was midday and a midday meal in the saddle once again when a rider donned with a Stark surcoat approached her group at quite the pace.

The captain of her escort stopped the man. “What message do you bare for us?”

The young rider looked to Lyarra. “Lady Stark,” he addressed her. “Ser Rodrick and his men have taken Lyanna and Brandon onto the soldiers’ horses and will reach Winterfell within the day.”

That was the best news she’d had since this entire affair began. Her children would be home in a matter of hours.

Bowing her head in gratitude, Lyarra straightened in the saddle once more. “It is relieving news to hear. Thank you for riding with such haste to inform me.”

“Of course, my lady,” the youth replied before wheeling around to face Winterfell’s direction. “Any message for Lord Stark? I will arrive within three days at messenger pace.”

There were a few things she could have told Rickard, but they were for a private setting. However, there was one message she would send. “I do. Inform my husband I am well, protected, and will arrive in a sennight,” she instructed the man, who nodded and galloped towards her home in response.

Ser Rodrick and the soldiers escorting her children had no doubt gotten close enough to Winterfell that racing back to the castle to the point of exhaustion was an affordable option. Lyarra, however, did not have such a choice. Out here and a sennight away from Winterfell, attempting to push their horses past their limits was folly and invited trouble. Her journey maintained its current pace for the sake of safety.

An escort was no use if they and their mounts were too tired to fight if necessary.

Watching the galloping rider become smaller as he rode for Winterfell, Lyarra sighed and prompted her escort to continue home. Her horse was still capable of the average riding pace considering she hadn’t overworked it during the Riverlands and the Neck.

_Next time I travel south, I’ll leave via White Harbour. We need a port on the west coast as well._

The day of riding was another of peace and Lyarra observed her surrounds and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

That night when the group of seven were preparing for sleep, Lyarra in her own tent and wrapped in furs, the horses were restless but only briefly until there was the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

Rising from her furs and emerging from her tent, Lyarra witnessed one of the soldiers sheathing his sword and grumbling. “I thought it was the end of that thing days ago,” he remarked under his breath. The horses were calm once more and Lyarra’s curiosity made her feel a little impulsive, but in such darkness, she decided against it.

She settled into the furs and slipped into sleep.

 

_Day 13, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

She awoke earlier than what had been normal on this journey to Winterfell and knew there was no point in attempting to go back to sleep. Being so close to Winterfell made her heavily desire to venture on until she could see its towers. Winterfell was roughly four days of travel before she would be finally home and see her children again.

Emerging from her tent, Lyarra went for a walk without going too far and soon found herself standing on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the Kingsroad but not her camp concealed within the trees. Turning her gaze north, she could spot Winterfell if Lyarra squinted hard enough.

The view was beautiful and serene. A land blanketed in white, decorated with dark green tundra and the grey of rock.

There was a light grey in her periphery that moved.

Turning to see it, Lyarra was blown away by the very sight before her.

As tall as her shoulders and as calm as the quiet of their surroundings. This was what she’d seen nearly a sennight ago travelling along with her escort but at a distance; significant distance clearly.

Danger and beauty mixed into one being.

Logic told her to flee, but logic was overruled by wonder.

Taking slow tenuous steps, Lyarra neared while watching its behaviour carefully; on all fours but no tension in its body as though intending to pounce with those long legs. Instead, the golden eyes of its pronounced face were soft and watchful. The muzzle didn’t so much as move.

_It flees at the sound of steel._

Which was odd considering its predator body, and a large predator at that. But Lyarra kept that piece of knowledge in mind and rested one hand on the dagger hilt on her hip just in case.

_Have Stark soldiers been scaring you off? They had no idea, did they?_

_But why are you afraid of steel?_

The question intrigued her, but instincts overruled her curiosity and Lyarra proceeded to slowly back away as her face lost colour. She didn’t know this creature’s tendencies and didn’t want to find out if this one had a cunning nature. Its response to her stepping away was not what she had anticipated, and instead of bounding towards her like its next meal, the wolf sat itself down on the snow and rested it muzzle between its paws.

_Like a well-behaved dog._

It felt as though that was unjust to think about such a large and majestic creature with its beautiful soft grey fur and golden eyes, but Lyarra didn’t know what else to compare it to.

Stopping her steps and taking a breath, Lyarra could feel the fear coursing through her veins, but forced herself to step forward. There may never be another chance to do such a thing as this again, and Winterfell waited for her with many dramatics to be dealt with.

_It fears steel._

She didn’t remove her hand from the hilt in case she absolutely needed to draw it.

_You keep coming back to me. Why?_

Shaking in her riding boots, Lyarra was standing at its paws and watched as it didn’t attempt to exploit the moment. Breathe shakily, Lyarra stood completely still while it sniffed her hand before nuzzling it affectionately, startling her.

Meeting its gaze, Lyarra eventually grew the courage to carefully pet it; she touched only the nose for a while. She moved onto the cheeks and wouldn’t blame herself if she made water with so much of her body vulnerable to the concealed teeth she had yet to see.

But it didn’t attempt anything. Instead, it just sat there and watched Lyarra with the occasional affection returned in response to Lyarra’s touches.

_Breathtaking…_

She moved along the side of its body; shoulder, the ribs, and its back. The beauty just watching her while she did it.

An idea came to Lyarra’s mind which terrified her; removing her hand from the hilt.

_It fears steel. If I move my hand away what will happen?_

_Lyarra, you are the daughter of Arya of Clan Flint of the Mountains. Have some courage woman._

_I don’t want to die._

_It could have killed you ten times over by now. Just let go._

Watching the eyes of it, Lyarra slowly released her hold and waited for a gory end as her heart was beating rapidly within her chest.

But there wasn’t one. And Lyarra felt a tear slide down her cheek in relief.

“Thank the gods,” she muttered to herself and rested her forehead against its side, taking deep breaths as her racing heart was resistant to slowing down. There was a furry nudge against her cheek. Lifting her head, Lady Stark forced herself to look that way and saw the softness of the golden eyes.

Reaching out with her left hand that no longer held that dagger hilt, Lyarra ran her fingers over the furry cheek and couldn’t help the smile as she experienced the chance of something she never imagined happening.

“What are you doing on this side of The Wall, girl?” Lyarra said more to herself than the dangerous beauty.

_If you’re a male, you’re a patient one and fooled me thoroughly._

She hadn’t expected a reaction, but there was a sad, drawn-out whine that pulled at the heartstrings.

It was getting close to breaking of fast and Lyarra knew she ought to be getting back, but this was a brilliant moment that she didn’t want to end. There was no harm in this. It didn’t want to eat her and seemed to just want affection.

Raising her foot to take a step back and off the rock, there was a resistance beneath which pushed her up and had her strewn across the back of it in one smooth motion.

“What do you want?” she murmured, watching its eyes and trying to understand but it kept tilting its head upwards. There was only one possibility she could think of. “Are you sure?” There was a gentle moan that Lyarra took to mean ‘yes’.

_This is insane. How does it understand me? Would Rickard laugh or panic at this sight? Think I’ve gone mad mayhaps?_

She frankly didn’t know what to think about anything at this point. Gripping the wolf’s back and swinging one leg over to the other side, Lyarra adjusted her grip and sat there, but almost fell off when it unexpectedly rose from the ground. It must have felt her wobble and turned its head to look her over.

“I’m alright.”

_Who are you exactly talking to, Lyarra?_

She didn’t bloody well know and didn’t have time to think about it, for they were racing down the snowy white land of the Kingsroad at a pace she wouldn’t have expected from a creature slightly smaller than a grown horse.

It was a direwolf.

 

RICKARD STARK

_Day 15, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

It was the afternoon of another day that Rickard desired his wife’s presence at Winterfell. There were so many problems that only she could provide an answer that he would trust. His children had returned to Winterfell early and reportedly arrived at Moat Cailin nearly two sennights ago.

Moat Cailin was not the Tourney of Lannisport, and what were they doing without their mother and retinue?

Lyarra had sent a letter to Winterfell from Harroway that gave much information but made more information desired.

Lyanna embarrassing her mother at Riverrun to the point that Lyarra decides against going to the Tourney of Lannisport?

Lyanna riding off ahead of the retinue and Brandon giving chase to protect his sister?

And childish behaviour was seen by Lord Jon at Crossroads Inn?

So much could have gone wrong with this alleged stunt.

And so much was lost from being absent at the tourney.

_At least Ned was present at the tourney._

Looking at a letter sent from Casterly Rock and sealed with the Martell sigil in itself was an unusual thing, and upon opening the letter, Rickard read the intriguing content inside.

_To Lord and Lady Stark_

_Houses Arryn and Martell shall be joining at the beginning of the Sixth Moon, through the marriage of Elbert Arryn, heir of the Vale, and Princess Elia Martell of Dorne._

_We hereby extend an invitation to House Stark to witness and celebrate this union of houses and pray we have provided sufficient time for travel._

_May the old gods protect you._

_Lord Jon Arryn_

_Great House of Arryn_

_Warden of the East_

_-Wedding part aside, Rickard. Your son, Eddard, honoured your house at the Tourney, and I’d like to tell you in detail._

Talk about what or whom wasn’t included, but it didn’t take much time at all for Rickard to feel he already understood what the conversation to come would entail. Especially, since Jon would never write the matter in a letter. Himself, Jon, Hoster and Steffon had taken careful measures to limit how much other people of significance heard and witnessed the affairs of their great houses.

Tywin Lannister was kept informed by Steffon for the most part given the more travel-friendly landscape between the pair. Both of whom frequented the royal court.

They only shared betrothal information between themselves and didn’t gloat to Westeros when finalised. Rickard and Hoster kept matters quiet concerning Brandon and Lady Catelyn, but the betrothal between Jaime Lannister and Sansa Tully was a known fact to the realm.

Not exactly the best idea for the five colluding Great Houses, but Rickard understood that prideful Tywin needed to exploit the betrothal by making it official for the good of his house.

It was a risk that Rickard wished could have been avoided though.

Rickard believed that Jon wanted to defend the decision of marrying the Martells into the Arryns. The Martells hadn’t been part of their discussion after the War of the Ninepenny Kings over a decade ago. It was true that the Targaryens never defeated Dorne in either of the two wars between them, but other than that what did House Martell have to offer?

_Could they be trusted or would they inform the Targaryens?_

Putting the letter about the wedding into a discrete place, Rickard left his solar and walked along the balcony that overlooked the courtyard of Winterfell. Normally Lyanna would be in here training with her sword, much to Rickard’s annoyance, but he’d let the matter go and permitted only training shortly before departure for Riverrun.

His heir, on the other hand, would normally be fostering at Barrowton under Lord Dustin’s eye. However, an apparent promise to protect Lyanna brought him here and Rickard refused to send Brandon back to Barrowton until Rickard knew what by the gods was going on.

Since they’d arrived here and given their part of this ridiculous story, Lyanna and Brandon were restricted to their bedchambers until his wife and their mother arrived.

According to the messenger yesterday, Lyarra was due to arrive tomorrow with the escort he’d had waiting for her at Moat Cailin. Rickard doubted she wanted to deal with this the first day she crossed the moors of Winterfell but it had to be done once he knew what fully happened.

He walked along the battlements in hopes of spotting the six men protecting his wife arriving with her a day early.

There was a strong howl coming from beyond the moors and he turned to sound that should be coming from the opposite direction; the Wolfswood. Not the Kingsroad.

_I pray Lyarra has not encountered trouble._

There were few guards out in this cold, but the two near him reacted similarly and watched the Kingsroad for any further details.

Making his way to the stables, Rickard retrieved his swordbelt and strapped it on as he walked. He’d been waiting at Winterfell for the answer to this whole mess too long and now the day before Lyarra was said to be arriving there was a wolf howling happily on the Kingsroad. One with a set of lungs about it too.

He commanded a small group of men to each prepare a horse and retrieve a bow and quiver to accompany him. Deliberately riding in the direction of wolves was a dangerous affair, but he wasn’t going out there for answers without protection. Any danger would be put down with a mere signal from him.

Mounting his horse and leading the small party of archers, Rickard rode out onto the Kingsroad until they crested the moor and could see a fair distance.

He didn’t need to see a fair distance and his grip on the sword hilt slackened.

There was a feminine gasp. “DON’T DRAW ANYTHING!”

He faltered at the shout of Lyarra, but couldn’t see her where he expected her to be.

His gaze rose to where the shout had come from. From the sigil of his house.

A grey direwolf.

Lyarra was sitting calmly on the back of it.

_Fuck…Have you gone mad, Lyarra?_

He heard the sound of arrows being nocked and witnessed the way the wolf was backing away, eyes looking at the archers flanking him.

“She flees at steel being drawn!” Lyarra told him from atop the wolf. “The arrows are making her nervous! Stow them!”

Rickard was nervous as hell with his wife so close to the jaws of a wolf. Let alone a direwolf. A creature that hadn’t been seen south of The Wall for over a hundred years at least.

_But a direwolf that cowers at the sight of weapons and has my wife on its back?_

“My lord?”

Rickard didn’t look away from Lyarra on the back of a fucking direwolf. “Listen to her,” he said solemnly and heard his men putting the arrows away. The wolf calmed and didn’t make any sudden movement.

“Toothless, cowardly thing, isn’t it?” an archer remarked rhetorically, but the wolf growled and blood could be seen on its teeth.

Rickard snorted. “Apparently not,” he disagreed, while his original concern for Lyarra returned. “Lyarra, what are you doing on a direwolf? Where’s your escort I sent?”

_I seriously need answers._

Lyarra petted the blasted wolf behind the ears. “She traveled parallel to the escort for a sennight but never attacked, and I learnt she flees at the sound of steel. I stretched my legs two days ago and she found me alone. She just sat there, maw between her paws. it was bizarre, and a direwolf past The Wall? I suppose my dormant wolfsblood drove me to approach her, Rickard. Then I found myself on her back and she brought me here. A few bandits tried to ambush us at dawn, but she killed them.”

_That explains the blooded teeth._

He had a feeling that the part about wolfsblood was pure shit. Lyarra had never displayed behaviour similar to that of their heir, daughter, and admittedly himself.

_I’ll get a proper answer later._

“And the escort?” he questioned, he’d get details on the peculiarity of this direwolf after.

Lyarra looked unsure. “Following our tracks, I’d wager. Their horses are fresh and shouldn’t be far behind now that I’m not on a slow horse.”

“Lyarra,” he spoke clearly despite his fraying courage. “Do us all a favour and come here.”

His wife dismounted without any trouble and let it nuzzle her hand shortly after.

_What is with this wolf? It’s acting like it’s accustom to humans._

Lyarra, however, didn’t need to be reminded of his request and made her way over to Rickard, who pulled her up into the saddle in front of him. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Please don’t kill her, she’s done no wrong.”

Rickard looked over his shoulder to the archers. “I’d appreciate some privacy with my wife?” The men hesitated and he understood why they did. “Await us on the battlements and be ready to fire.” They departed as one after that and left him mounted on his horse with Lyarra and looking at this full-grown direwolf.

The wolf’s apparent fear of steel made it tempting for him to draw his own to scare it off, but he had a duty to the people of Winter town. “Is it tame?”

“No, Rickard. But she isn’t a bloodthirsty brute. She’s the sigil of our house, please, let her live. She’s intelligent, unlike other wolves.”

Direwolves. Before dragons became history, direwolves also roam the North as companions of Stark lords. It was a rarity that the creature was in the North at present times. And what were the chances that it would find a Stark _and_ not kill said Stark?

The matter was frustrating. He wanted that wolfsblood answer at least. “Yourself and Ned never acted like a Stark with wolfsblood. What really happened, Lyarra?”

“The walk was true. I wasn’t far from camp either. Gazing at the North I saw movement and turned. That’s when I saw her, standing close enough to pounce but didn’t attempt to. It was intriguing and terrifying; watching her just look at me with no malicious or calculation like a hunting predator. I made to leave, but she went and lied on the snow like a lazing dog. The fear of steel is genuine; she runs like her life depends on it. I knew that so I gripped my hilt while I touched her with the other.”

“Lyarra, that’s-“

“Insane? I know, but- Look! She was doing exactly that.”

Rickard could clearly see the direwolf lying on the snow with its maw on its paws.

_Gods…After some wine I’d be tempted to test my luck, but not clear-minded._

What motivated his wife to approach and touch that wolf?

“Rickard, I don’t have a scratch. In reflection, I can’t believe I did it, but it’s done and I glad I did. Don’t tell the archers to fire, I beg of you.”

He was the one with the wolfsblood; he should be the one obsessed with this direwolf. Not Lyarra.

_She’s grown attached to it._

“You’ve named it, haven’t you?”

“No.”

That answer took him by surprise and he turned her to meet his eye before raising his eyebrow.

“It wouldn’t seem right. She’s not mine to name, I feel it.”

Satisfied with the absence of complete attachment, Rickard turned his trained horse to leave the moor but Lyarra dismounted and he halted his horse before doing the same and tying it to a tree. “I love you, Lyarra, but what the fuck are you thinking? It’s a direwolf and the size of a horse,” he questioned while gripping the hilt of his sword.

“I know what it is, Rickard, but I don’t fear her. She hunted when she grew hungry, and as you can see I was never her meal,” she replied, walking over to it without a qualm about the potential danger. Lyarra proceeded to pet it and he witnessed it return the affection. “Haven’t you noticed she hasn’t harmed me? A Stark by blood? A direwolf sigil?”

He gritted his teeth and slowly got closer to his wife to protect the deluded woman. “I’ve noticed,” he said testily. “Lyarra, I know my eyes don’t lie, but we need to return to Winterfell and to our children. Our children, Lyarra.”

She walked over to the head of the creature and rested her hands near its mouth.

_Lyarra, by the old gods, walk away!_

As he neared Lyarra, his hand resting on the hilt and ready to draw at a moment’s notice, he could hear her murmuring to it. “Shhh, I know. I know. He won’t harm you. It’s a bad luck to strike down your sigil.”

_Is she comforting the bloody thing?_

“Rickard, take your hand off the hilt. Look, Ice frightens her worse than I’ve ever seen, she’s shaking,” Lyarra spoke softly while the direwolf whined repeatedly. “No other sword has scared her this much.”

_Apparently, Ice is worse. But I don’t want Lyarra dead. Has someone drugged you with the milk of the poppy, dear wife?_

So intent on watching this direwolf for a moment’s warning, Rickard’s left hand was grasped and placed upon soft fur before he realised it. “Lyarra, what-This is madness.”

“Release the hilt, Rickard.”

“Lyarra, have you no self-preservation? I’m the one with wolfsblood, not you. If I release this sword we have nothing to protect us.”

His wife removed her hands from the direwolf’s head and turned her back on it in order to face him. “I’ve been with her for two days and never had to draw my dagger to use it against her.”

“Then you’ve had two lucky days, Lyarra. We’re leaving. Our lives are at risk enough already, I’m not releasing the only protection I have for the sake of satisfying a direwolf.”

Lyarra was unmoved by the comment and as stubborn as her mother’s clan was said to be. “When we leave what do you intend to do with her? Kill her? Leave her to be killed by someone else? Either way, it’s a bad omen for House Stark.”

_Blasted stubborn clan blood._

“Lyarra, you’re standing with your back to that wolf. For my sake, leave for Winterfell now.”

“I will leave when you answer, Rickard. I am a Stark by blood and marriage and this wolf’s life matters.”

_Fine. Fine!_

He turned towards the battlements. “TAKE AIM!”

“Rickard, no!”

He grasped his wife by the shoulders and stood both of them side on to the wolf.

“Don’t, Rickard, please!”

His wife was clearly restraining herself from shaking and alarming the direwolf while he approached it.

“PLEASE!”

He stood in front of its paws and held out his left hand, the other rest on the hilt. Tense and ready to react in an instant.

The direwolf sniffed his hand and looked at him with frightened eyes. The pair stared at one another and Rickard waited a long time before taking a breath and releasing his grip on Ice. Arrows would slay this wolf the moment it attempted anything.

Lyarra had become silent and the direwolf was behaving calmly now that his wife wasn’t pleading for its life.

Rickard kept to one side of the wolf, never stood face to face with it, and watched attentively as it permitted him to touch. The moment his long hilt touched its side, the wolf flinched and whined fearfully. Lyarra walked to it and proceeded to shush it again.

“…I won’t let him kill you,” she was whispering to it. "Rickard, please."

_It is quite trusting of Lyarra, but it is fearful of me. We’re both humans, what’s the difference? This situation has to be one of few times Lyarra has acted defiantly._

Deciding what he was going to do with it, Rickard sighed and shook his head. Its behaviour was not that of the average wolf; that much was certain. He turned in the direction of the battlements again.

“STAND DOWN!”

Lyarra sobbed relief into the light grey fur of the direwolf’s neck.

_That will take getting used to…_


	33. Tough Loving Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cracked 1500 kudos since last posting. Stoked!
> 
> Thanks for all the support.

 

LYARRA STARK

_Day 15, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Having patiently led the direwolf into the godswood to reside there for now, and all of the Winterfell guards directly ordered as one by Rickard not to attack or draw weapons near it; Lyarra was finally able to wash away the wretched smell of riding for a moon and a half.

Northern winters were not the time nor place to be wasteful of any resource; instead of tubs of hot water made by burning wood like the southron castles, House Stark took advantage of the single hot spring that never froze over unlike the rest.

Inside the bathing chambers built around this spring, Lyarra relaxed in the warmth that soothed her muscles and sighed in relief when her spine lost tension thanks to Rickard’s massage.

“Better?”

“Hmm...much. It was a long ride,” she murmured as he drew her close again gently and pressed his lips to her temple.  

“I feared I’d lose you today,” he admitted and wrapped his arms around her middle, hands on her stomach. “The creature’s gentle and cautious, but had it been any different; and you on its back…I dread the thought.”

Lyarra closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry, I should have known the howls would draw you to us. I should have gotten off. Direwolves don’t have a reputation of being, nor are tame.”

“You’re tired, Lyarra. You couldn’t have thought of everything,” he forgave her quietly as he held her against him. “They were companions of the Winter Kings with wills purely of their own.”

The continuous steamy warmth within the chamber was making her drowsy and Lyarra rested her head against her husband’s neck. “I could probably sleep like this…”

She heard him chuckle under his breath and the nerves of her hair tingled as Rickard brushed his fingers through it. The feeling lulled her into a semiconscious state for a time until he stopped his ministrations. “Rickard,” she groaned in annoyance. “I was comfortable.”

Her husband looked reluctant to leave. “Come on,” he spoke in encouragement, lifting her out of the water and onto the heated stone of the chamber. “Let me help you to our bedchamber for some rest. A featherbed will do your back wonders,” he spoke before opening the high, narrow windows near the ceiling.

The steam practically rushed out of the chamber, clearing the air to the point of no mistiness. The chill that managed to sneak in while Rickard closed them again made her more alert and retrieve a dress from the attached chamber that was used as a walk-in wardrobe to keep clothing from getting moist from steam in the main chamber.

Immediate priorities jumped to mind as she dressed in a warm woollen dress. “Lyanna. Brandon,” she merely mentioned, needing to say little.

He walked over to her, dressed as well, and gave her a light lingering kiss. “I don’t expect that to be sorted today, dear one. What’s one more day of confinement?”

Lyarra shook her head and met his eyes. “I returned today. Doing it today would tell them I’m serious about my words. Tomorrow will make the matter look less important.”

“A brief rest at least, Lyarra,” he persisted, thumbing her cheek. “We’ll speak to them together, but I need to check something with the master-of-horse first,” he suggested, assisting her into a warm cloak.

It sounded like a good compromise and if she was telling it true, Lyarra was rather tired after the journey and what happened on the moors of Winterfell. Nodding her head, she walked with her husband from the spring chamber and spotted the direwolf resting contently within the godswood, before they passed through a gate and retreated to the warmth of the castle.

By the time they arrived, not much it had been, Lyarra was stifling a yawn and shed herself of the cloak, before getting under the furs of their bed. Beside her, she felt the weight of Rickard on the featherbed as he sat atop the furs. Turning herself over to face him, Lyarra felt as he brushed his fingers through her hair.

It would lull her to sleep, no doubt, but she wanted to know something first. “How is he? Benjen,” Lyarra asked and had to muffle a yawn that soon followed. “I know he was upset about not coming to the tourney.”

Rickard thumbed her temple and Lyarra had to fight the urge to sleep. “He got over it after I told him how long he’d be away from his smallfolk friends.” There was a gentle press to her forehead. “Get some sleep, love.”

She hummed in agreement and slipped into dreams despite the midmorning sun.

When she woke, Lyarra was not alone, but it wasn’t Rickard who was snuggled against her. It was her youngest son, who was a year younger than Lyanna.

Benjen.

“Father said you’re not sick,” was the comment from her youngest child.

Raising her hand to his eyes and brushing the hair away from them, Lyarra smiled at their young boy. “Yes, Mother was tired, sweetling.”

“Are you tired now?”

She chuckled softly and kissed his forehead. “No, Benjen, I’m better now. How were your lessons with Maester Walys?”

“Lessons?” he parroted back like it was the silliest thing to talk about. “They were alright,” he shrugged and became excited. “Everyone’s saying you rode home on the direwolf in the godswood. Is it true you rode it? Really rode it? Like a horse? What’s its name? Father said you won’t name it.”

The excitement in her son made her smile in amusement. Sitting up on the featherbed and pulling Benjen into her lap, she looked into his light blue eyes. “I suppose I did, Benjen, but not like a horse, I didn’t control her like we do with horses,” she told Benjen as she held him. “The direwolf is not mine, little one. Your Father’s right that I won’t name it.”

“So what do we call it?”

That was a very valid question but to give it a name would be to name it. They couldn’t refer to the direwolf as ‘it’ all the time. “The Direwolf of Winterfell,” she answered. “Or simply ‘The Direwolf’, Benjen,” Lyarra decided. “She’s the only one I know that’s south of The Wall.”

“The Direwolf,” Benjen repeated slowly. “It’s not really a name, but I guess it’s something.”

_That’s as close as naming her as I will go._

“Exactly,” she said to Benjen while noticing a few grey hairs on her son’s leathers. “Benjen?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Did you go to The Direwolf?” Lyarra asked her youngest and saw as he fidgeted in her lap. “You’re not in trouble, I’m curious.”

There was a small smile pulling at his lips. “Yes. She’s nice,” Benjen replied a happy shine in his light blue eyes.

That gained her interest in the topic as thoughts flurried through her mind from concern to confusion. “Nice? Could you tell me how?”

“I heard about the weapons thing and didn’t carry one in the godswood. The Direwolf relaxed when I raised my hands like I was surrendering.” It was something that would have frightened Lyarra hadn’t Benjen been right here in her lap. “I sat down beside her and scratched her front legs for a little and The Direwolf seemed happy. She bumped me with her nose to stop me when I nearly tripped over a tree root.”

That was the first friendly interaction with a male she witnessed or heard about. Mayhaps his young age and mild differences in features to his father assisted in keeping The Direwolf calm. Benjen mainly took after Lyarra’s slimmer appearance and blue eyes while Brandon, Ned both predominantly looked like their father, who’s grey eyes and thick build made him a fierce looking man to fight. Lyanna had her father’s eyes and features, but Lyarra’s slimmer build.

“Can I see her again, Mother? Or is there a rule about visiting her?” Benjen asked, looking eager to venture into the godswood again.

Kissing her son’s forehead, Lyarra felt the squeeze of a hug from Benjen. “You can visit her, sweetling. There isn’t a rule about it. Except for the weapons,” she told him and loosened her hold on his so he could leave. However, he didn’t take off for the godswood like she‘s expected of him. “Sweetling?”

“Why isn’t she dangerous like a normal wolf?”

Lyarra shook her head to try and rid it of her dawn ambush memories. “Benjen, I want you to listen to me,” Lyarra said to her youngest. “She can be a dangerous creature, but not if you do the right thing. Men tried to attack me and she killed them.” Benjen swallowed while his mother spoke. “Be gentle and no weapons, and you’ll be okay like your earlier visit.”

“So she can be dangerous?”

“Yes, Benjen, but listen to me and nothing will happen,” she urged him, watching as he nodded his head.

“I understand, Mother.” There was a pause of silence will Lyarra continued holding her son. “Brandon and Lyanna are in trouble with you and Father, but what about Ned?”

Loosening her hold and lightly gripping his hand, Lyarra smile slightly at the care her son showed. “Ned’s been good, Benjen. He’s not in trouble.”

“I miss him.”

It had been years since the two had seen one another, Ned having fostered with the Arryns when Benjen was four.

_Mayhaps the wedding, but who will be the Stark in Winterfell? Rickard claims he must go to the Arryn wedding. Brandon mayhaps, but after failing to stop his sister the first day they made camp? Ser Rodrick and Maester Walys to ensure he remains here, but Brandon has wolfsblood and my stubbornness if he wanted to return to Barrowton._

Looking to her eight-year-old son, Lyarra pecked him on the forehead. “I know you do, sweetling.”

The door of the Lord’s bedchamber opened and Lyarra saw Rickard soften at the sight of Benjen. “Being good for your mother, Benjen?” Rickard asked, sitting down beside Lyarra.

“Yes, Father,” their boy replied with an easy smile, eyes looking happy and turning to Lyarra. “I want to visit The Direwolf again.”

Releasing her slight hold of his hands, Lyarra gave Benjen a small push and watched as the boy took off.

Rickard was looking at her when she turned her attention to him. “Visiting the direwolf?” he repeated in confusion. “Again? I didn’t know there was a first time.”

“Apparently he visited her while I slept,” Lyarra replied before extending her explanation. “Benjen said he had no weapons and she was relaxed around him; stopped him from tripping over a tree root as well.”

While she didn’t know the path of thought of her husband, Lyarra could tell at least that Rickard was intrigued by this news. “So long as this direwolf continues to be no danger to me and mine, she can remain here,” he informed her seriously, to which Lyarra nodded in clear understanding.

She raised the topic of Benjen. “Rickard, Benjen misses Ned. I made no promises, but is there anything we can do about that? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but I have no inclination to trust Brandon after failing to stop Lyanna once he caught up to her. He is the better rider of the two.”

“I know Benjen does, Lyarra. However, there mayhaps be a way,” he replied while guiding her over to the vanity table and picking up Lyarra’s brush. “Absolute bird’s nest.” She playfully slapped his arm, which only made him laugh. “Abusive woman.”

Lyarra rolled her eyes while Rickard ran the brush through her mostly-tidy hair. She hummed at the pleasant feeling it gave her.

It took little prompting from Rickard’s hands on her shoulders for Lyarra to rise and face her husband. “Lyarra, I missed you something fierce.”

“And I came back to you.”

“In the craziest way possible.”

Lyarra’s lips quirked. “Yes, I’m afraid you’ve married a lunatic.”

He snorted at her reply and his laugh was brief. “Mayhaps.”

Chuckling at the response, Lyarra shook her head and moved her thoughts onto that about her children. “We need to speak with Lyanna and Brandon.”

“Aye, we can’t delay this any longer.”

Pacing their bedchamber, Lyarra listened and shared ideas with Rickard as they tried to produce a punishment both adequate and a lasting lesson for their children. The foundations of the punishment were quickly agreed upon, but the finer details took a little time.

Once the verdict was hammered out and fitting, guards were sent to bring Lyanna and Brandon to the Lord’s solar, the chamber between the halls and their bedchamber.

Sitting with her husband, Lyarra watched as her two runaways took a seat at Rickard’s instruction. Unlike her, their father rose to his feet and walked back and forth behind their children, outside of their view while their eyes remained forward as he told them to.

“When I received a raven from Harroway explaining that my heir and daughter saw fit to ride ahead of their mother and retinue, I was furious,” he told them sternly. “There was a retinue for a reason,” Rickard reminded them. “It had soldiers. For a reason. Your mother was taking you to Lannisport. For. A. Reason.”

Lyanna piped up. “Mother was making for home, not Lannisport.”

Her husband’s anger was clear, but unseen by their children. “For. A. Reason!”

Brandon sighed. “Why am I getting punished for this? I was protecting Lyanna back home,” he complained, looking unhappy about the unknown punishment.

Lyarra spoke from her seat. “It shouldn’t have been necessary. You’re faster than your sister, Brandon. Catching her was no doubt a simple task for you. Instead of stopping and waiting for me, or better yet turning around back to me, you rode on to the North. What we decide is as well-deserved for Lyanna as it is for you.”

Her son scowled but said nothing.

Lyanna on the other hand, the near-ten-year-old, was not so quiet. “If we went to the tourney this wouldn’t have happened.”

Rickard came into the girl’s view quite quickly. “If you hadn’t insulted House Tully and House Lannister with your arrogant behaviour, you would have gone,” he reminded her. “The Tullys had Lannister guests and you were specifically told by Sansa Tully not to sing a tavern song that’s offensive towards the Lannisters at Riverun. You used a Tully personal horse without permission. Not to mention your insensitivity at Guest Right, Lord Tully is widowed, Lyanna, you don’t ask such things within the first moments of meeting them.”

Rickard paused for a moment and stood in front of both of their children. “The pair of you rode home alone until my men found you. You’ve earnt what your mother and I have decided.”

Lyarra rose from her seat. “Follow your father. We’re going outside,” she told them and watched as they did so, Rickard leading the way while Lyarra followed from behind.

Despite the chill and the wind, it was going to be done now and not later.

When they reached the yard, Lyarra peeled off from the group and retrieved what was necessary with discretion and had the assistance of a stable boy. When she caught up with Rickard and their children at a particular hill, the stable boy passed the reins of two horses to his lord before leaving as she’d instructed.

Lyarra hated that she had to use these horses like this to teach her children a lesson, but the deaths were necessary no matter how it was done.

“What?” was Brandon’s reaction.

Lyanna was gaping. “You can’t be serious. Please.”

Rickard spoke before the two could begin shouting and drawing attention to them here. “Your stupidity and carelessness have rendered them lame. The pair of you did the deed, now you will finish it.”

Lyarra passed their bows and quivers to them and watched as Brandon prepared the string of his bow while his sister did not.

She was staring at the albino with her lips parted in devastation.

Lord and Lady Stark had no sympathy for their daughter. Poor thinking had brought this fate about.

Walking over to the horse she frequently rode, their daughter was petting its neck while her eyes had a wet sheen. “I love this horse. Don’t make me do this. Please,” Lyanna pleaded, looking from Rickard to Lyarra.

_You’re hoping I will change this after what you’ve done? This lesson is one you both need._

Rickard was unmoved by Lyanna’s words. “Food is scarce and won’t be wasted on lamed creatures. Your behaviour brought this on,” he told their daughter. “Both of you.”

The words Rickard had spoken concerning food was a true one, and although the winter was slowly thawing despite the Citadel predicting it to last years more; the North simply didn’t have the freedom to spare food for matters such as this. Lyanna loved the horse but the North couldn’t afford the give such mercies for a lame creature; the southron kingdoms mayhaps could afford to, but not the North.

Brandon sighed and nocked his arrow with his bow facing the ground while the reins of each horse were being tied to a tree. Lyanna wasn’t being so cooperative.

Lyarra addressed the matter. “You too, Lyanna, I know you’re a capable archer. Your actions have effectively killed her. You passed the sentence, now you will carry it through.”

“I love her.”

Rickard did not intervene while Lyarra pressed for her daughter to nock an arrow. “Starve her, or a quick death now, Lyanna. That is your choice, for she won’t be fed since she’s lame. You did that to her.”

_Snowstorm doesn't deserve this fate._

The girl finally did as told and nocked an arrow, a tear escaping as it was done.

Brandon raised his bow once there were no people in the line of fire.

“Aim.”

“Fire.”

Two arrows hissed through the air and met their targets, leaving opportunity for an unnecessary commotion by horse or person.

Lyarra looked to Rickard as their daughter sobbed and their son was solemn. Rickard spoke to fill the void. “Those were fine horses until you made them run themselves into ruin. Poor care for your next horse will have the same consequences.” Rickard stood in front of their children while Lyarra took the weaponry. “Sir Rodrick and the master-of-horse are aware the only horses you are to ride will be the one you are to feed, train, care for yourselves, and like today, kill them and bury them yourselves if necessary.”

Brandon looked confused. “Train them?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Lyarra confirmed. “Two yearlings will be brought from White Harbour within two moons for you to raise.”

Lyanna was teary and looked at her mother as though Lyarra was horrid. “You just made me kill Snowstorm,” she choked out. “Now you want me to raise a year old horse?”

Horses are ridden once they were four years old. These two were effectively unable to truly ride for three years with the new rules in place. However, Lyanna was more upset about the death of her snow-white mount.

_It was a waste of a lovely creature; two of them._

Rickard was beside Lyarra when he spoke. “Snowstorm is to be buried where you see fit outside Winterfell. The next time you lame a horse by careless riding and ahead of a retinue, we won’t be giving you another one.”

“Yes, Father,” Brandon said and picked up a shovel that had been brought here. “It won’t happen again.”

Lyanna said nothing and cried next to the dead albino horse.

The pain of her daughter pained Lyarra, despite it all, but Rickard spoke to the children as if he was unaffected, although Lyarra knew he was. “The men here will assist burying the horses, but the graves shall be dug by your own efforts alone.”

Walking back with her husband to Winterfell, Lyarra waited until they were out of sight of their children to speak. “Lord Dustin-“

Rickard sighed and continued leading the way to the solar with Lyarra beside him. “I’ll have to cease fostering Brandon there for him to learn from this. It’s a big measure to take, but I need our children to learn that there are consequences for everything. If they raise the horses poorly, they’ll have a poor horse. Lame it, they’ll kill it also.”

“Lyanna has a will about her, I imagine you told the master-of-horse the restriction on riding for both of them?”

He nodded to her question. “Aye.”

Entering the Lord’s solar, Lyarra stood by the window as she heard the sound of Rickard scratching away no doubt a letter to Lord Dustin explaining that Brandon will be remaining here for the foreseeable future for practice as a lord.

In one manner the letter was true. Brandon needed to learn the behaviour of a true warden, as well as general behaviour for the sake of House Stark’s future.

_Why couldn’t Ned be our heir?_

Honestly, the boy was far less grief than Brandon and Lyanna. Benjen was well behaved and a pleasure with a harmless perchant for japes, but both of the younger sons would make better lords based on their general behaviour. Lyarra disliked thinking of Brandon in such a manner, but she couldn’t pretend her eldest was as well-behaved as she would like.

“Lyarra,” spoke Rickard from his desk.

“Hmm?”

“What can you tell me of Hoster’s girl? The one half the realm is talking about and Tywin got betrothed to his son Jaime; Sansa Tully.”

There was a lot to say, but Lyarra didn’t want to be here all afternoon. She was still interested in going to The Direwolf and spending some time with it. “A good lady for a girl of eleven. Befriended Jaime Lannister prior to getting betrothed to the boy. Pretty thing, nearly identical to Catelyn. She seems to trust myself and Ned. Speaking of Ned, he’s quite comfortable talking to her, but she’s always pained when she does.”

“Pained?” Rickard parroted back, audibly using the seal and putting it down.

“Yes, Rickard. Pained. She hides it well from most, but being near him saddens her,” Lyarra elaborated, turning around and watching as Rickard gave the note Maester Walys who gave a little bow of the head. “I thought she was sad about her mother, but now I’m not so sure that was why.”

It was a peculiarity that she overlooked upon noticing it, assuming it lingering grief that surfaced when around people she was comfortable with and Ned was the sort of person that was calm and quiet. Easily liked but…nervous around a girl that’s not Lyanna.

“Rickard, it’s about Ned. I never thought about it, but Ned talks with ease around her, but nervously near her sisters. What do you make of that?”

Her husband was pacing within the solar until Lyarra led the way out of the solar and where she wanted to go.

“That is unusual, Lyarra. Two strange matters about the same people. I really don’t know. Starks have done nothing to Tullys to give them grief,” Rickard told her and rubbed his chin. “She trusts you? How so?”

They were almost at the godswood where they wouldn’t have to be concerned about being eavesdropped on while discussing any overly sensitive content. Waiting until they passed through the gatehouse and into the godswood, Lyarra released a breath and waited until they were in a short distance.

“She was worried about making a bad impression to the Lannisters not present at Riverrun,” she said, fiddling with her bracelet and looking at the spot where a direwolf bead should be. “Instead of talking to her father or uncle, she came to me for information about the Lannister family,” Lyarra elaborated on the topic and ceased fidgeting with the bracelet.

Rickard had noticed and he lifted her hand before raising an eyebrow in question.

“It’s strange. I gave her a direwolf bead, I don’t know why I did and told her to send it to Winterfell on a raven if she ever needed help. She seemed particularly happy when I did so. That was before she came to me with her questions.” Rickard only hummed to her words.

They silently walked among the trees and found a comfortable spot to sit. Neither said a word to the other since Lyarra and Rickard didn’t know the answer to this.

A short distance away was the sound of something large on the snow. Lyarra got to her feet and saw as Rickard did the same, her husband deliberately keeping his hands away from any possible hilts. Together they followed the sound until they found their youngest child, Benjen, piling snow against the sides of The Direwolf, and tossing some onto its back.

Husband and wife stood there watching as that grey giant wolf didn’t create a single fuss over what Benjen was doing; covering it in snow.

“Patient thing,” Rickard muttered into her ear.

“Hmm.”

After the snow got quite high, but not a lot in proportion to the size of the direwolf, she rose up onto all fours and most of the snow landed on Benjen, who laughed and crawled his way out of the snow pile. Lyarra couldn’t resist chuckling at the sight but made sure it was quiet. Glancing at Rickard, she could tell he was amused.

“I never thought I’d have a friendly direwolf residing in my godswood.”

Lyarra chuckled and leaned against Rickard. “I’m glad you told the men to stand down.”

“I’m not the superstitious sort, but not having her killed feels like the right decision.”

“It was the right decision. You’re looking at it,” she insisted, watching the scene in front of them. “Right there, Benjen is making a nuisance of himself, but she’s not lashing out.” A thought occurred to her. “She’ll want to hunt for food though, it’s nearly time for the evening meal for us.”

Rickard seemed to know where she was going to her words and already had an answer to the question. “There’s a wooden gate on the south wall of the godswood, covered in vegetation at the moment, the gate opens to the area near the kennels and the Hunter’s Gate. Once the vegetation is removed she can use Hunter’s Gate to leave and hunt in the Wolfswood without frightening Winter town.”

“Perfect.”

“I thought so.”

Lyarra rolled her eyes and Rickard laughed lowly. “The kennel master won’t be too happy.”

“The Hunter’s Gate is the least active; I don’t want guards on the other three gates dismissing the sound of a horse as Winterfell’s direwolf going for a hunt and miss something.”

Humming in agreement, Lyarra watched as the demeanour of The Direwolf changed from a lazed wolf to one more alert.

Benjen now with them, having spotted his parents watching, they followed The Direwolf as it wandered around the godswood and looked as though she was paying deep attention to everything; especially the heart tree which it seemed to be staring at with an occasional whine every now and then.

Behind her, Lyarra heard the sounds of two people approaching and so did The Direwolf, turned around and had a watchful gaze as it looked at Brandon and Lyanna. The pair was frozen stiff next to their calm father as they watched their mother standing so close to a direwolf.

Brandon broke the silence first. “So it’s true? Everyone was saying you returned on a direwolf,” he asked, to which Lyarra nodded to avoid disturbing the calm of The Direwolf. “And fear of steel?”

Her daughter scoffed at the wolf when Lyarra again nodded to confirm what people had been saying. “Coward.”

Instead of the quiet tolerance Lyarra had witnessed so far, The Direwolf narrowed its eyes at Lyanna and a little of its teeth showed. Its legs and torso, however, didn’t move.

“Lyanna,” Lyarra spoke in a warning tone. “It may not have the ability to speak as you do, but it can understand an insult. This is no mere hound, and she’s rather intelligent.”

The Direwolf of Winterfell moved its attention onto Brandon and focussed on her son of fourteen. The aggression it had displayed towards Lyanna was absent as the wolf merely looked at Brandon and seemed to be taking in his features.

Before it did anything else, it looked to Lyarra and extended a foreleg towards Brandon. “Brandon,” Lyarra said to her son. “Do you have any steel with you?”

“No,” he said sounding confused why she was asking. “I thought it wasn’t a dangerous one.”

When The Direwolf approached him, the expression cleared from Brandon’s face and he became a little nervous, but that was to be expected considering its superior size.

“She can be, Brandon, but that’s when she has to fight,” Lyarra replied, seeing how the direwolf was looking from Rickard and Brandon. Peculiarly, without the fear towards Rickard that it had shown on the moors outside Winterfell.

Lyarra could contribute the change of fear to the absence of Ice, but the extent was too much to be something so simple. The Direwolf had moved onto only Rickard now and was openly curious but considerate in its behaviour towards Lyarra’s husband. The action was odd given how afraid The Direwolf had shown it could be around Rickard.

Watching her husband pet their sigil, Lyarra had to smile at the sight of The Direwolf no longer fearing Rickard as it once had. It was interacting with Rickard with polite enthusiasm and a rumble could be heard from within its chest once Rickard seemed to have found a sensitive spot behind an ear of the lowered head and deliberately rubbing it.

Benjen was grinning. “She’s not scared of Father anymore,” he said happily.

The Direwolf closed her eyes for a moment but a second later the chesty rumble abruptly stopped.

Lyarra looked to Rickard, who hadn’t seemed to have changed what he was doing, and it appeared The Direwolf was backing away from Rickard slowly; its eyes checking around his waist quickly, for steel no doubt. Once there was enough space for The Direwolf to turn, she did and made for the other side of the godswood with haste.

Rickard looked to Lyarra. “Any idea, Lyarra? You know her better than us. I didn’t change anything I was doing.”

_I thought she was warming up to him._

“I don’t know, Rickard.  I really thought…In time, I suppose.”

Lyarra expected a smart remark from at least Lyanna, but nothing was said.


	34. Stubborn Stark Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proof read

This was home.

But none of her littermates were here and nor could she smell their scents or feel their spirits as she once did.

None of the people smelt the same either, except the alpha man’s youngest pup. He’d visited her every time the sun came up and she was glad he did. It was slightly familiar; the only creature really, but she remembered him as bigger.

This stone home was confusing to see, she knew it well and with the forest inside the tall stone. The looming height of the stone was a little less high than what she could remember, but it was still looming over her.

Everywhere was covered in snow and colder, but her fur kept her warm. The youngest pup’s snow didn’t bother her very much, but he sounded happy when she shook it off to get warm again. He’d left some time ago today.

Wandering the white forest with its red leaves above her, she took a drink from a shallow puddle of warm water inside the stone home. The air was warm and wet here. The alpha woman always checked the brown tree wasn’t blocking the way and said ‘door’ if she saw her nearby.

Leaving the warm water and back out to the forest, the paws of the alpha woman didn’t sound far away as they came closer.

There was a strange feeling in her tonight, but it was only a feeling that did nothing.

The sound was getting close and she could see the approach of the alpha woman.

_Lyarra._

That was not her thought, and it was a human sound the alpha woman always reacted to.

The alpha woman –‘ _Lyarra,’_ that thought interrupted again – looked happy and came up to her and reached up without fear and to scratch her behind an ear. “It seems the servants aren’t closing the door anymore,” Lyarra said with a calm and an appearance that was also calm. “Who’s direwolf are you, sweet girl? You’d been here for over a sennight. Ned’s mayhaps? He’s the only Stark not here.”

She didn’t know what Lyarra was talking about and went back inside the warm stone, settling herself on the stone ground that kept her belly warm. Lyarra laughed and entered the cave as well, but left the brown tree out of the way.

Looking into the deep warm water the head of a large grey wolf was looking back at her. A feeling of strange shock rushed through her body.

_Is this real? It can’t be._

The alpha woman ran a hand through the grey fur of her neck “I’m glad you use the bowl in here and not the hot spring. I imagine using the spring would tempt you. However, it seems you’re already trained in how to behave. And you’re polite and gentle… almost like a lady.”

She didn’t know what Lyarra was talking about and typically didn’t at all, but at the last word she softly barked and straightened up.

Lyarra was soon beside her. “Lady?” the alpha woman spoke and looked to her. “That is your name? Lady?”

She softly barked in response.

Lyarra’s mouth was open, made a surprised sound and blinked her eyes. “Lady.”

She barked again.

The alpha woman rubbed the fur of Lady’s cheek. “Ned would never call a direwolf that. And it’s too feminine for Lyanna. It must be a girl. Who do you belong to, Lady?”

There was a sudden heavy feeling of sadness that was running through her mind like a river.

_I miss you, Lady._

The sadness doubled and she just had to get out of the warm stone cave. She welcomed the chill of the snow and waited for Lyarra to be by her side; the alpha woman was always a pleasant visitor.

Lady felt the pressure to walk off to other parts of this stone home.

_Castle._

She didn’t know what that meant, but like the humans’ talk, it was a sound they often made when they spoke.

Venturing through the white forest slowly so Lyarra didn’t fall behind, Lady wandered into the vacant courtyard and remembered the way it used to be. Her brothers and sister used to play with her as pups.

“What is it, Lady?”

She whined softly and Lyarra rubbed her side.

“I don’t know who your owner is, but you only leave Winterfell to hunt. How am I to help you?”

Lyarra came into view and had a sad expression on her face.

_I pray this is not my imagination._

 

SANSA STARK

_Day 25, 3 rd Moon, 276 AC_

Awakening from her sleep in the middle of the night, Sansa sat up in her bed and looked around her Riverrun bedchamber; breathe erratic and tears running down her cheeks.

She’d dreamt that she was a grown-up version of Lady living in Winterfell.

But that couldn’t be possible.

Rising from her bed, Sansa quickly dressed and left her chamber in silence. There would be no more sleep for her tonight, not with the memories and emotions relentlessly coursing through her body. Moving through Riverrun with light steps to not wake the numerous guests, she encountered no one within the halls and made it to the godswood of Riverrun.

There were no weirwood trees here like Winterfell, Sansa observed while sitting herself down deep in the woods, everything was a brown and reminded her of where she was and what she was now. Closing her eyes, she muffled her sobs with a hand and rested her head against the trunk of a tree.

She didn’t want to accept it.

She had managed to fool herself into feeling nothing about shedding her Stark identity once again. But now with that dream of a grown up Lady combined with Winterfell, she felt that she couldn’t go on like this.

Not with an adult form of Lady in her night now.

This had to be her mind’s first try in reminding her of who she was. Sansa Stark.

_Lady…_

She missed her. For however short Lady had been her direwolf, Sansa hadn’t felt the same since Eddard Stark killed her.

The death of Lady was as though she’d lost an important part of herself since then, but not knowing exactly what.

_Lady was so sweet._

Looking to the moon and taking a breath, Sansa felt the tears run down her cheeks.

_It was my fault that Lady died. If I hadn’t lied about Joffrey and sided against Arya, Lady would not have died._

_Lady died because I went against the family. All because I wanted to be Joffrey’s queen._

_I was so stupid._

_Please, Lady, forgive me._

Her cries renewed and Sansa dropped her head to her knees as her body shook.

Lady had never deserved to die, especially for the sake of Sansa’s childish dream of becoming the Queen of Westeros. Sansa would give anything but her new family for Lady to be alive and safe; even if it meant Sansa could never be close with her. That was a difficult fact to acknowledge.

She could still remember that dream-reflection of Lady; it had definitely been her with the markings around the eyes.

Getting to her feet, she started to walk in the woods feeling the need to be doing something. The solitude made her feel like she could think and breath without someone there to judge her. Weeping at the reminder of the gentle direwolf, she dabbed her eyes and looked to the night sky. She hadn’t dreamt of Lady since the innocent wolf had been killed.

_Why did I have that dream? My mind punishing me? I deserve this torment, but Lady deserves to have her life back, not me._

Resting her forehead against a tree, Sansa closed her eyes and remembered the way Lady had been in Winterfell and on the Kingsroad. There had never been trouble and Lady always seemed gentle, happy, and trusting.

_She was killed for what I did. I loved her._

_I only thought about what I wanted and not what I had._

She could remember it clearly; the day the pups had been found and all of the Starks together without the machinations of the south touching them.

And stupid little Sansa had been more interested in princes, songs, and stories than her family. And neither had she treated Lady like a direwolf; a wild creature. No, she’d decorated her with ribbons on the collar; something else Lady shouldn’t have been subjected to.

_Lady had been a direwolf._

_And I was a Stark._

Sitting on a fallen tree, she drew herself into a tight hug and cried against her knees. The chill of the thawing winter’s night not bothering her.

It reminded her of the North; of Winterfell.

_Lady…_

_I’m so sorry. I wish I had the chance to say that to you before you died._

Sansa cupped her mouth and felt the wet of her tears slide down her hand.

_Lady never deserved her fate. The fate I caused._

Taking a breath, Sansa forced her breathing to slow down but did nothing to stop the tears. Lady deserved every single one of them; wherever her spirit was with the gods.

_I’m sorry, Lady. I pray that you hear me and my words._

Slowly leaving the godswood, she returned to her chambers, Sansa fed wood into the hearth and watched as the fire grew. Glancing down at her shoes as she thought of Lady, she swallowed and released a shaky breath.

_There’s nothing I can do about you, Lady. Please forgive me. Shall your rest with the gods be peaceful._

Using the flame of the fire to light the candles, Sansa took a seat by the window and held her drawing supplies in her lap. If Sansa could never see Lady again, she could at least draw her from what the dream had shown her.

What Lady could have looked like had she been given the chance when Sansa was a Stark; not a Tully, not a Stone, not a Lannister.

Closing her eyes and remembering what Lady had looked like in her dream, Sansa focussed and started putting it onto a page of her book. Every stroke was steady and sure. That picture never left Sansa’s mind, and she took her time in replicating that image upon the parchment of the page.

The light of the morning making its approach did not break her concentration. She wanted to complete this picture before the details began to fade in her mind.

Putting the charcoal down, wiping her hands clean, she looked at the result of her efforts, and Sansa had to put her drawing book down so she didn’t ruin the picture with tears.

It was of Sansa’s dream. And next to the majestic direwolf was a younger version of Lady. The young direwolf Lady had been before that fateful day. Winterfell in the background of it all.

Weakly sitting down onto the seat, she wept for Lady and what Lady could have been.

There was a light knock on the door.

Sansa didn’t look up from her book but closed it. “Come in, Cat.”

The door opened and closed gently, but the footsteps were not Catelyn’s and made her look up; it was Father. “Sansa,” he said sounding concerned. “Has someone harmed you?” He closed the gap and gently pulled her towards him into an embrace. “The night’s guard said you roamed the halls when you should be abed.”

She didn’t attempt to pull away from Father’s light hold. “No one’s hurt me, Father. I just needed some air.”

Father pecked her on the forehead. “Good. We have many retinues and people here, Sansa, I want you to be careful,” he warned her, giving her a squeeze, lifting her up with his arms, followed by the sound of him sitting on her cushioned seat. “We had the feast for the arriving Great Houses last night. No more late night wanderings, my daughter,” Father said to her and lifted from her neck the necklace Mother and Father had given her. “We meant it when we gifted you this, Sansa. You’re a Tully. You're family.”

Something in what Father had said made Sansa’s breathe hitch and her eyes moisten. It was as though she was being torn from hearing those words.

Father and Mother had accepted her into the family, and now Sansa was struggling to accept her identity would be Tully and not Stark. It was as though she was being ungrateful.

And she felt guilty and wept.

“Sansa?” Father spoke, rubbing her back and holding her close. “I know, sweetling, I know. We all miss your mother. She was important to us all.” He kissed her temple and tucked her against him.

She tried to stop the tears from coming, but no matter what she did they still came.

Going to Winterfell and calling herself a Stark would never be possible.

Going to Winterfell and seeing her Stark brothers and sisters was impossible. They mayhaps will never be given life this time. Catelyn was not betrothed to Eddard, who in turn seemed to be getting along well with Ashara Dayne.

Robb

Jon

Arya

Bran

Rickon

They’d never exist here; not with the way things currently were. Her actions in Westeros since arriving were already appearing to have an impact upon Houses Stark, Tully and even Lannister. Sansa’s presence had ensured the survival of Oswell and Joseth, as well as putting Eddard in a position where he attended the tourney alone and needed to interact with girls with a little more self-confidence. Cersei jealousy of Sansa led to the humiliation of House Lannister and Sansa was betrothed to Jaime soon after.

_The Tullys are my family now. Father, Mother, Uncle Brynden, Cat, Lysa, Edmure, Oswell and Joseth._

She wept against Father and took a breath. This is her life, and she missed Mother greatly.

He gave her a squeeze which she returned silently.

Father rose from the seat and Sansa stood up out of his way. As Lord of Riverrun, he no doubt had much to attend to with Great Houses Arryn, Martell, Baratheon, Lannister and Stark present in one extent or another. Going over to her book, Sansa opened it to her drawing of Lady and stared; wishing, daydreaming and remembering.

_Lady…_

A part of Sansa would always be Stark.

She would find a way to make it balance in her heart.

Sighing, Sansa put her book away from prying eyes and left her chambers for the stables. Yesterday had been an evening arrival at Riverrun and Jaime no doubt would want to ride today after three sennights in a wheelhouse; Sansa also had no intention of breaking the promise she’d made to Mother in her final hours.

The halls were busy with many handmaids travelling them, carrying out the request of one Great House member or another. Ashara Dayne was the one exception here at Riverrun, travelling with the Martells as their company and attendee for the wedding. Eventually, however, Sansa made it to the stables and Jaime was nowhere to be found. The master-of-horse approached her after a little while.

“Do you seek Jaime Lannister, my lady?” he spoke with respect but with some confidence concerning his question.

Wondering what he knew, she nodded in response. “Yes, I do, Henric. What can you tell me?”

“He left through the northeast drawbridge roughly ten minutes before you came. He rode with his uncle, Ser Gerion.”

Sansa nodded her head. “Thank you, Henric,” she replied gratefully and spotted a stableboy bringing out Grey Grace. “Thank you also,” she spoke to the stableboy. “Could you assist me in getting up please?”

“Of course, my lady.” Once they were outside the Tully stables, she took the reins in one hand and gripped the saddle well with the other. Raising her foot into the boy’s interlocked hands, Sansa felt him boost her up while she pulled up into the saddle.

“Thank you.”

Both the master-of-horse and the stable boy murmured ‘My lady’, and Sansa took her leave through the southwestern drawbridge.

She was not Jaime’s minder and, although his company had yet to be unpleasant, Sansa needed to be alone right now. Her mare cantered along River Road to the west, but she slowed when they later crested a hill that overlooked Riverside.

And on that crest she stayed with no sense of time, watching the specks that were the people milling around below.

Watching the town, but imagining it with snow and the chill of the North, Sansa thought about Winter town outside Winterfell and everything else she missed about the North. And although it was said to be a thawing winter this year, she knew in her bones that the cold here in the Riverlands, Westerlands, and anywhere else was nothing compared to the North.

She desired to be in the North.

But desiring to be in another place had been a major reason she had not fit within the Stark family properly in her last life.

Right now, she was very close to letting herself make the same mistake again.

Only thinking about what she wanted and not appreciating what she had.

She had a family here in the Riverlands; she was betrothed to the heir of another Great House; she had friends that carried her deepest secret of not being a true Tully. What more could she possibly ask for?

_Lady…_

But Lady, if that had been like one of Arya’s wolf dreams of Nymeria, could be alive and safe in the North. Inside Winterfell’s walls and free to hunt beyond them.

_Lady couldn’t be in a safer place than that._

_I pray to the gods that Lady is alive._

_I beg of you, do not torment me with false hope of my direwolf._ She mentally asked of the gods, but she had no expectation of them to answer her. It had been learnt by Sansa a long ago that pinning hopes on the will of the gods never amounted to anything. She prayed for the important things, yes, but that was all she prayed for and looked after herself otherwise.

“Sansa?” called a familiar voice. Turning in her saddle, she saw it was Oberyn and Elia approaching from Riverrun. Oberyn had his easy smile, but Sansa didn’t have it in her to return the gesture. “What are you doing merely sitting in the saddle? Grey Grace is for riding,” he reminded her with a tap to the shoulder. “I remember you getting upset when someone else did.”

Glancing his way, Sansa saw that Elia was on the other side of him. Elia looked at her and then Oberyn.

“Oberyn,” Elia said seriously. “I don’t think japes are welcome right now.”

The Dornish prince looked to Sansa and gazed at her expression with his sharp eyes. “I thought you’d be happy to be with your family, Little lady. What’s the matter?”

Sighing within her saddle, Sansa nodded and looked to both of them. “I’m home, and everyone’s hale and healthy. I am happy to be back at Riverrun. Lysa is doing well, Edmure has the company of Tyrion again, the twins have survived their first few moons. My siblings are well and Father is managing after what happened to Mother.”

She finally had the opportunity to say what was well overdue.

“Oberyn,” she spoke slowly after a pause. “I never got to thank you,” Sansa said turning her face to Oberyn. “What you did for my family is something I can never fully repay. You’re the reason my brothers are alive.”

Elia didn’t appear to be surprised and only smiled to Oberyn, while the prince in question rested his hands on his knees. “I knew something was wrong and did what I could, Sansa. I’m glad I didn’t look the other way.”

“Why did you try?” Sansa asked out of intrigue and realised what she likely sounded like. “I mean, I’m grateful. Truly, Oberyn, I am, but you only knew me for a moon when you saw my mother. That’s a short time to know anyone.”

The prince looked at her with a thoughtful look after the points she’d made in her questioning, and Elia was listening to them with interest but no great amount of surprise. There was admittedly a little surprise coming from Elia but only minor. Gazing at Sansa, Oberyn shook his head and placed one hand on his saddle horn, body part-turned towards her.

He looked around the clear area before he spoke. “I find a supposed Tully in Braavos, cut off from her family, and promised them passage home. I ensured they were brought home where they ought to be,” Oberyn began calm but serious. “Anyone from the Citadel who studied healing would have noticed the symptoms, and I did. There are no Westerosi methods that would have saved her. One Essosi method had a chance, but I had no supplies.”

Sansa did not interrupt.

“The nearest port, of course, was Lannisport. And who resides on its doorstep but Tywin Lannister? The man who slighted my sister and would likely be there when I was. And he was,” he said, and Sansa understood that he’d done the journey as much for himself as he had for her mother. “I had the knowledge, Sansa, and there was a motive of my own in trying to save your mother.”

Sansa looked into the distance and nodded. Their friendship had formed sometime after the death of her mother, but it hurt a little to know that Oberyn’s efforts had been somewhat fuelled by revenge.

“I won’t pretend I am perfect, Sansa, and my reason was true. However, you must know I didn’t fail because I didn’t care about a woman’s life,” he told her earnestly. “I made the concoction properly. I gave you the right amount. I did what could be done.”

She nodded to him. “I believe you,” Sansa murmured to him, her thoughts venturing to her memories with Mother. “I believe you. Especially since you used an accident in knife sparring to plant the idea in my head,” she said, turning in her saddle to face him. “But the spar was no accident, was it?”

Oberyn had a wry expression. “No, Sansa. It was not.”

Elia rode to Sansa’s other side and took her hand. “What bothers you, Sansa? Oberyn and I saw you alone here long ago and you hadn’t moved when we returned.”

Sansa’s mind went to her struggles and it made her sigh. Just what could she tell them? Was there truth in what that strange woman in Lannisport had said? Sansa had never told her anything that would give her the impression Sansa was from another time period.

There was a feminine squeeze of her hand. “Sansa?”

Keeping it all in - the Starks, Lady’s death and dream, her existence in this time – was becoming too much and a tear escaped. “I don’t belong here,” she whispered and her shoulders shook. She couldn’t throw caution to the wind.

“That’s nonsense, Little lady. Aye, we met in Braavos, but your home is here. Those you hold close are here.”

“Sansa, Oberyn is right. You do belong here. They genuinely see you as a sister, daughter and niece. They love you.”

Turning her gaze to Elia, Sansa could see that the princess meant the words she had spoken, but Sansa took a breath and let out a slow breath. “I know they do; I like to believe so at least. Elia, I’m a danger to them. It will only take the wrong person seeking the truth to put their safety at risk.”

Movement from Oberyn’s side got her attention. “Your father is well aware of that, Little lady. He is no stupid man and is known to have a scheming nature; he would have thought of ways to protect all of you from harm,” he reassured her. “Besides, Sansa, what your father engineered by sending Catelyn to the tourney, an identical girl, was ingenious and no one will question whether you are a Tully. Your family is safe.”

Looking at both of the Martells and their genuine expressions of care were heart-warming to see, but Sansa didn’t know whether she could entrust the truth of her blood to them. Yes, they already knew she was allegedly a girl raised in Braavos with no memory of her parents, but telling them the truth of her origin felt like they would know too much about her if she told any more.

That she was half Tully and half Stark.

In her past life, Sansa had to shed her identity completely and become Alayne Stone to survive the machinations of Petyr Baelish. At the time she had thought no one but Jon at The Wall was alive, and even that she didn’t know for certain. But here in this time, both of her parents were alive, alas they were children slightly older than her, but she had to pretend she was the sister of one and absolutely no relation to the other. It was taxing on her, but Cat’s acceptance and care for her numbed the pain a little.

_But that dream…_

It was nothing like a regular dream or nightmare and brought her aching concerning her Stark side to the surface. The way Arya had described her dreams of Nymeria sounded very similar to Sansa’s one of Lady; sound, touch and smell had felt very real. As real as she felt right now with the Martells in the Riverlands.

Dreams and direwolves were purely a Stark matter.

And she’d just had one.

Hopefully.

Nodding to her head to them both, Sansa turned her horse around and rode Grey Grace at a walk in the company of Oberyn and Elia. She didn’t take the Martells to be fools, lacking caution with sensitive information like Braavos, but she began a conversation about Elia’s wedding anyway before they got too close to brush and Riverrun.

The topic was alight and lively like a fire with plenty of wood.

“Sansa,” Elia said in admonishment. “The amount of time that will take…”

Sansa shook her head and looked at Elia. “Is of no matter. What do you think I’ve done the past three sennights in the wheelhouse on a smooth road?” she replied rhetorically. “I already had your measurements, and a convoy of five Great Houses was going to take longer than only House Lannister.”

Oberyn was smirking in amusement and rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “You’re not going to talk her out of this, sister.”

Elia shot Oberyn a look, who held his hands up in brief surrender. “I will be making part of my wedding dress, Sansa. Your gesture is kind, but I do have a style in mind for the outside of the dress.”

She glanced at Oberyn and replied to the princess with little delay. “There are a few different ones ready because I wasn’t sure-“

“You didn’t!” Elia cut in looking shocked by Sansa’s comment.

“No, no I didn’t.”

Oberyn doubled over in his saddle, laughing at trick she’d just played on Elia, earning him a backhanded slap on the arm from Elia. “That’s not funny, Oberyn. She’s my friend, not someone who’s life-“

“Oh no, not funny at all,” he managed once his laughter eased. “…just mildly amusing.”

By this point they were back within the walls of Riverrun and Sansa waved a small goodbye to the bickering pair before leaving her horse with Henric and going inside. The talk about Elia’s wedding was a true conversation and a nice distraction from the problem that troubled her, but once she was alone again her anguish about Lady returned.

She had to find out if her dream was truth or a godly punishment.

Sansa didn’t linger in halls or hide in her chambers. Instead, she went to the Lady’s solar and sat down at what had once been Mother’s desk. In front of her was a fresh piece of parchment with no writing on it thus far.

She needed to find out if her dream was true, otherwise, the possibility would haunt her mind endlessly. But thinking of the right way to phrase the letter was proving more difficult than she had anticipated. To write a letter that was too blunt and to the point about Lady being hers if she was there could spell trouble for Sansa if it fell into the wrong hands. But be too vague and the letter would likely get tossed into a fire to help keep the northern castle warm.

Closing her eyes and thinking about that dream again, Sansa remembered that Lyarra Stark had been in it and with Lady. And she’d learnt that Lady’s name was Lady.

If that dream was a real occurrence like Arya and Nymeria, then Lyarra would be the best person to write to and it would be easy to slip in something that would be enough of a clue. And if Sansa’s dream had been just a dream, the clue could be overlooked as nothing more than words in a letter.

Dipping her dry quill into the ink, Sansa wrote out her letter.

 

LYARRA STARK

_Day 2, 4 th Moon, 276 AC_

“Lady Stark?” Maester Walys called out to her in the godswood while she was resting a hand on Lady’s side and idly playing with the fur.

She knew the maester, despite his claims, feared Lady and would never venture near her. “Yes, Maester Walys?” she replied, approaching him while Lady stayed where she was.

“A letter for you, Lady Stark.”

Accepting it from the maester, Lyarra watched as he walked back into the warmth of Winterfell’s castle. The letter he’d given her was sealed with the sigil of Tully and wax semi-circles of red and blue. She’d seen it enough times to know it was sent from Riverrun.

_But what interest did Hoster Tully have in the Starks now that Catelyn was truly betrothed to Brandon?_

Opening the letter, she was surprised to see that the script was not that of Hoster, but of a female’s handwriting.

 

_Lady Stark,_

_In the south, it is being said that a living direwolf resides within your walls at Winterfell. The merchant who mentioned it was dismissed as deluded and an exaggerator by those in the tavern, but I am curious whether there is any truth in what he says._

_Is there a grown and gentle direwolf living in Winterfell? It would be the most intriguing sight to be sure._  

_Lady to lady, is it true?_

_Regards,_

_Sansa Tully_

Lyarra was not dim-witted and found the third last line interesting; the word choice was unusual and unnecessary, not something normally used in a letter. Another thing to consider was that there hadn’t been enough time for the news of Lady to have reached Riverrun without using a raven. And there was no reason to use a raven for a matter such as Lady.

_How could she have known before it was physically possible for her to know? She is a Tully, not the blood of two Starks._

Unless one of her children had sent a raven, but she doubted it.

Tucking the letter away into a pocket of her cloak, Lyarra returned to Lady and rested a hand on each of the direwolf’s cheeks. She had to test what the letter alluded to. “Sansa?” she spoke, watching the reaction of Lady.

Lady suddenly looked excited; tail wagging with energy.

_I’ll be damned. Sansa TULLY is Lady’s owner._

_But how?_

_Why a Tully instead of the children of Starks?_

She had to speak to the girl. Letters were too vulnerable to communicate anything of depth about this.


	35. Departure and Dreams

SANSA STARK

_Day 9, 4 th Moon, 276 AC_

In the Dining Hall of Riverrun, there was a hum of constant conversation between the multiple houses present at her home. The entire Baratheon family was coming to the wedding, two Martells, two Lannisters, four Arryns; simply put, Riverrun had catered for many guests during the two sennight side-stop of the wheelhouse convey travelling to the Vale.

And today they would be leaving to continue the journey.

The stay had been a pleasant one; Sansa had gotten to spent time with all of her family. Lysa was doing well without the presence of Petyr Baelish and Sansa had seen the way she’d done most of the household duties of a lady with a little help from Cat and Sansa, considering the numerous guests. Lysa had become a better lady but was still a sister to both of them.

Every now and again, Sansa had spotted her father having some time alone down in the chamber that served as a dock. It must be where Mother’s boat had been released for the funeral, so she didn’t dare interrupt his time alone. But otherwise, Father had made sure his guests were content and his children were happy, even her. Every now and again since finding her crying in her chamber two sennights ago, he came by and made sure she was alright.

Edmure had learnt more words and was strings them into sentences since she’d left for Casterly Rock, and Sansa was proud that he was doing well. His ability to run around was a little less endearing and made him a nightmare for bathing, but nonetheless, her brother was growing up the way he should be. He was growing up and doing well.

Oswell and Joseth had survived their first few moons as babes and that was a good sign that they would live full lives.

The breaking of fast was interrupted by Maester Kim approaching her father. “Lord Tully, a letter for you.”

Father accepted the letter and nodded his head in thanks before breaking the grey seal on it; Stark.

Interested in what the Starks wanted to tell her father and wondering if her own letter had been the cause of it, Sansa remained at the table with her sisters instead of immediately leaving. Cat was to attend the wedding while Lysa remained at Riverrun for practice at managing a household. There was some jealousy from Lysa who hadn’t gotten to attend the tourney, but Father had quickly squashed it with the reasoning that there would be more tourneys and weddings in the future.

“Catelyn, Sansa,” Father addressed them subtly after the chief handmaid had spoken to Lysa and taken her out of the hall with questions. The two elder sisters edged closer to their father and awaited what he had to say. “Lady Stark has invited the two of you and Lysa, but primarily Catelyn, to visit Winterfell after the wedding,” he told them without being overloud. “I need your sister here to manage lady’s duties, so I ask you don’t mention this to her.”

“As you wish.”

“Of course, Father. I understand.”

Father turned to Catelyn. “You’re betrothed to Brandon Stark and Winterfell is your future home. I will have you accompanied by a retinue and your uncle to Winterfell after the wedding.” He looked to Sansa with a thoughtful look. “No doubt Lord Stark desires to also see you, Sansa, since he wasn’t at the tourney like the rest of Westeros’ Great Houses. I imagine that the invitation was extended to Lysa to avoid being insulting.”

Nodding, Sansa was in agreement. Catelyn was going to Rickard future gooddaughter, and Sansa was the mysterious Tully that popped up out of nowhere.

“Both of you made your uncle and me proud of you at the tourney, and I expect you will both honour our house just the same at the wedding and Winterfell,” Father told them, Sansa and Catelyn nodded in understanding and he seemed satisfied. “The two of you and your uncle will be accompanying the Starks, including young Eddard, from the wedding to Winterfell. I’ll inform him of that in a moment.”

Sansa watched as Father left the Dining Hall before she began to think about the timing of the letter. It was exactly a sennight from her sending her letter to Winterfell; the time it took for a raven to make the distance in winter weather. Sansa did not believe in coincidences, and an immediate response from Lady Stark inviting the Tully daughters to Winterfell had to mean there was something of import to discuss.

It would have been more satisfying if she had received a confirmation or denying letter from Lady Stark about Lady, but Sansa would have to wait until after the wedding to know the truth. Since that first dream, Sansa had had three more and all of them were similar except the one about a morning and a little boy piling her with snow; she’d slept in that day.

Each morning since the first dream, Sansa had taken to looking at the drawing of a grown Lady next to a young Lady behind Winterfell.

She was once again eleven, and once again there was an aspect of the Stark family in her life. The reoccurrence of that made her wonder whether there was some kind of omen about the Starks or herself that she needed to be aware of.

Omen or not, it was painful to experience.

If she ever did anything that let on that she was half Stark, her chances of gaining the power to prevent The Others would be ruined and Westeros would be doomed to the fate it had been subjected to last time.

Whether she liked the fact or not, and if Lady was alive, there was no chance that she could safely include anything that would identify her as a Stark. Lord Tywin would be wroth with the deceit and Father and countless others would want answers.

And that meant Lady couldn’t be greatly involved in this life too.

If her dreams were, in fact, wolf dreams like Arya had once explained about Nymeria, it meant Lady was alive. And Sansa had no intentions of putting the life of Lady in danger again with stupid decisions.

The best thing for the sweet direwolf would be that she remained in the North with the Starks like she was in Sansa’s dreams now.

If those dreams were nothing more than dreams of want and not wolf dreams, Sansa would be crushed that her direwolf was truly with the gods and not amongst the living.  

That would be a godly punishment.

Leaving the Dining Hall, Sansa went to the twins’ nursery as she had done every day. Sometimes alone, or in the company of Jaime after a morning ride together. Today they’d made sure their ride was longer than usual since it was said that it would be a long and dangerous journey to the Eyrie.

Entering the twins’ nursery, Sansa went to the bassinettes and gently kissed the foreheads of both of her brothers. Since they’d come into the world she’d spent more time away from them than she had with them. It was a necessary evil, but she loved Oswell and Joseth and knew that staying at Riverrun and doing nothing to stop The Others would not help them.

She wanted to protect all of her family, and to do that she had to be away from them for moons at a time.

There was one place she needed to go once she had the sway and support to find out if Bran’s claims were true.

_“Old Nan said something that only now I understand. ‘Crows are all liars’._

_The Children of the Forest I knew and the Three-Eyed Crow north of The Wall weren’t against The Others; they helped them. The Children beyond The Wall were controlled by Children who live on the Isle of Faces; powered by the weirwoods there. The Children north of The Wall and the Three-Eyed Crow fed me paste made of my own friend and called it weirwood sap; no, it was Jojen Reed. The Three-Eyed Crow and the Children were using me to get The Others past The Wall. Isle of Faces, if only I’d known before and not listened to lying crows and Children of the Forest.”_

While Sansa did not have the complete context of the situation Bran had been in, she understood some of what he’d been saying; The Children of the Forest on the Isle of Faces were not the peaceful and content beings they were made out to be.

And The Isle of Faces was not a place to go alone.

But who would go there with her was a problem for another day. She needed to strengthen her relations with people of power; Tywin Lannister was beginning to trust her, but she needed more than him and the Martells.

Lifting Oswell from his bassinette, Sansa held him close and felt him tuck his head against her neck before his breathing evened out again into its calm, slow rhythm. Sansa closed her eyes and simply listened to her sleeping brother, relishing in the little life that was in her arms. Putting him back into the bassinette, she picked up the youngest and briefly did the same with Joseth.

They were growing so quickly.

With a feather-light touch, Sansa ran her fingers along the top of the red hair and placed Joseth back in his bassinette.

Standing by the door, Jaime straightened as Sansa gazed at each of the babes for a moment and joined him soon after. They ventured to the second nursery where Tyrion would be staying with Edmure while Jaime and Ser Gerion continued on to the Eyrie with everyone else.

The ten and eleven-year-old pair found their brothers playing together happily, but looked up when their elder sibling entered the chamber.

“Sa’sa!”

“Big brother!”

Picking up Edmure, Sansa was watchful of the boy’s cheeky hands that liked her hair, but he seemed more interested in standing on the ground. So she put him down and knelt so their eyes could still meet. “Been a good boy, Edmure?”

“Yes, Tywion fun.”

Curious in how matters were going, she glanced at the ground and saw the toys they’d been playing with. “Been nice to him?” she asked, hoping he wasn’t being mean to the dwarf.

“Been nice,” Edmure replied cheerfully and looked to Tyrion and Jaime having their own little conversation. From what Sansa could see, Edmure’s words were true and Tyrion appeared overall happy.

When Jaime put his brother back down, Sansa watched as the two little boys ran back to their toys and continued to play whatever peculiar game they had invented. Jaime leaned towards her. “I’m glad he’s going to be here and not Casterly Rock,” he said quietly. “Cersei is gone now, but Father doesn’t hide that he hates Tyrion. Here is better for him than there.”

“So am I,” Sansa agreed and saw the way Jaime was smiling at the pair playing in the nursery. “It’s good for both of them to have someone close in age to play with.”

They left the boys to their game. “Yes,” said Jaime as they made their way down to the courtyard. “He’s been happy these two sennights.” Things were quiet as they walked the halls on their way outside, but Jaime steered her into the library just before they passed it.

“Jaime?” Sansa didn’t understand why he had done that and looked for hints of what was going on.

He closed the door.

There were a few signs of uncertainty, and Sansa saw him lick his lips nervously. “Sansa,” he began, looking at her, watching her. “You’ve been different since we got here. What’s going on? We still ride, but it’s not the same like before. You’re quiet,” he asked, looking confused and a little worried.

Her distractive thoughts about Lady must have been showing during those rides of just the two of them.

And lying to Jaime was getting harder and harder; to her, he was not only a means to an end any more. He was more than that.

 

JAIME LANNISTER

It had taken only his question for Sansa’s eyes to shield over and hide her secrets.

After Cersei and the sept, Sansa took a little while to trust him again and open up when no one else was around. Sansa not hiding her thoughts and feelings was really nice and it was like he was with the real Sansa, not the one that everyone expected to see.

But right now looking at him was not the real Sansa. This one showed only what she wanted others to see.

“Sansa, please, what is wrong?” he asked her without being too pushy. Pushing anyone never got him any answers.

She didn’t speak straight away and looked to a window behind him. “I’ve hardly been here for the twins, and now I’m leaving again,” she told him, the sadness clear in her voice.

Jaime knew that she loved her twin brothers, cherished them with affection every time she had spare time. If only Father or Cersei had shown the same care about Tyrion, but he knew that such wishes were a silly thing after so long.

_I know Tyrion will be happy here. I suppose that’s why I’m not bothered like Sansa, but Oswell and Joseth will have their father and sister too._

Sansa really seemed to care a lot about her family; more than he expected if he was being honest. However, thinking about Cersei’s behaviour as an example wasn’t a good example and he knew it. Mayhaps normal girls were more like Sansa, and Sansa cared more than Lady Catelyn because she’d been taken away from Riverrun when she was a babe.

It was strange that she’d taken time to answer him though, but mayhaps she was slow because it was about the twins.

She sighed and for a moment Sansa hesitated. “Jaime, I’m…”

Jaime leaned forward to hear her words, but it wasn’t needed. She’d only paused.

“…packed to depart. Are you?” she asked him politely.

“Yes,” he replied. “We’re leaving once the stableboys have all of the wheelhouses ready.”

He felt a little disappointed about what Sansa had said, it had seemed like what she was going to say was something more important than was he ready for travel. It was like she was going to tell him something she was scared to say, but she didn’t want to leave the twins so soon and he already knew that.

Not letting it get to him too much, Jaime opened the door of the library and led the way down to the yard where servants and stableboys were finishing the final tasks so the travel could start. He was really not looking forward to it.

The journey to the Eyrie was supposed to take two moons, and it was said that Lord Jon never ventured through the Vale without a sizable force to protect him from the mountain clans.

That was going to be a lot of sitting in a wheelhouse.

But there was something that was going to be better this time than from Lannisport to Riverrun; during the two-sennight stay at Riverrun, Jaime had talked to the other boys, Eddard Stark, and Robert and Stannis Baratheon about sharing a wheelhouse instead of with their parents or alone. Stark had agreed to sit with him, mayhaps trying to make up for his siblings’ singing, while the Baratheon brothers both agreed with different levels of energy. Stannis changed his mind and decided to sit with his parents instead.

Jaime wasn’t too upset about that though. Stannis was always such a grump.

Sansa, Lady Catelyn, Lady Ashara, and Princess Elia would all be sharing a wheelhouse while Oberyn would be on horseback with Uncle Gery and Ser Brynden. The lucky bastard.

All of the Arryns were riding in a wheelhouse together, claiming they would be more comfortable doing that.

In the yard, everyone was starting to emerge from Riverrun and approaching the wheelhouses. He turned to Sansa and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you at the Eyrie?” he japed lightly.

Sansa gave an amused smile that reached her eyes. “We’ll see each other before then, I’m sure,” she replied and glanced over his shoulder towards the voices not far from him. “Sounds like your company is ready,” she remarked.

Looking over Sansa’s shoulder, Jaime could say the same for her and gave her a wave before he walked over to his two travel partners; Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. A quiet boy and a noisy one.

_This was going to be interesting._

Taking a seat inside and watching the main entrance, Jaime witnessed Sansa and Lady Catelyn saying goodbye to their father and sister. Soon after they entered their wheelhouse and the convey of four wheelhouses crossed the drawbridge and travelled northeast on the River road towards the Eyrie.

“So,” Jaime began. “What are you going to do after the wedding? I’m squiring for Ser Arthur Dayne in King’s Landing.”

Robert’s jaw dropped. “What? You’re squiring for him? Damn, that’s lucky.”

“Congratulations, Lannister. I’m going back to Winterfell for a little before returning to the Eyrie.”

“What will you be doing, Baratheon?” Jaime asked the Baratheon heir.

 

SANSA STARK

_Day 9, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

In the wheelhouse, Sansa was beginning to fall asleep from the gentle rocking motion of travelling on a soft road. She could see her sister already was sleeping, while Elia and Ashara were speaking in whispers so as not to wake Cat. Yielding to the persuasive rock of the wheelhouse, Sansa closed her eyes.

And dreamt.

Winterfell was as beautiful in the middle of the day as it was at night. Unblemished and surrounded by the white of snow. The godswood untouched by war.

She could feel the soft cold of snow landing on her back and turned her head until she saw a small boy with Stark looks toss more snow towards her back, a little giggle as he did so. Rising to a stand, she shook her back and watched as he squealed and laughed while the snow piled on top of him.

Waiting a moment, he emerged from it and laughed, leaning against her foreleg until the chuckles quieted down. “You’re funny, Lady,” the little boy, Benjen said who got up after a little push against his back. “Mother says your owner gave you that name. Lady.”

She nodded her head before walking towards the main gate of the godswood. There was an urge to venture to the courtyard of Winterfell and Lady didn’t fight the impulse, walking through the gate and into the heart of Winterfell without a single weapon pointed towards her.

The lack of a threat was calming and she continued on until the courtyard was in clear view. The memories of many humans she’d never seen flickered through her mind with a sorrowful feeling, but after a little, they were soon gone. Ahead of her, Lady could hear the sound of a young horse walking in the courtyard along with the steps of a human. Light steps, a female.

Something inside her knew that if she went any closer, it would scare the horse and cause trouble, so she sat down on her hind legs and watched the horse and human from afar.

It was that girl that had called her coward some time ago, and something inside her stirred for a moment but became small and didn’t make her want to do anything specific. Lady stayed there for a little while as the girl was leading the horse with rope – _reins_ – around the courtyard at different speeds, running beside the horse.

Eventually, the girl stopped doing that and took the horse back inside the brown tree – _stable_ – and Lady could hear the sound of things being moved around inside. Shortly after, the girl left the stables and walked away out of the castle’s smallest gate.

Curious of what the girl – _Lyanna_ – was doing leaving the castle, Lady followed her out into the woods at a distance and could see she was not going near the village within the woods or other places humans normally went inside the woods. Lyanna continued deeper in until she was quite far and reached a frozen creek and climbed up onto a rock that was as high as Lady’s back.

Lyanna seemed to be just sitting there and saying things to herself, but Lady wasn’t going to leave her alone when she wasn’t sure if the girl could protect herself. She hadn’t seen her take a weapon from the castle before leaving.

Lady wasn’t too close to the girl, but close enough that she could watch over Lyarra’s pup; the woman that had given home back to her and liked to see her nearly every day. Wandering off a little for her own space, Lady was quiet and enjoyed the feeling of winter. This was where she belonged.

_And this is where I belong, but never can live here if I’m to stop The Others._

Lady didn’t know what that other part of herself meant by ‘The Others’, but the feelings behind it were sad and wanting something it knew it couldn’t have.

Resting on the forest floor, Lady gazed at the bushes and trees she had once left for a place that had no snow and more humans. It was quiet here, calm.

But it was too quiet.

Getting to her paws, she began returning to the place Lyarra’s pup was brooding when she spotted a group of wolves closing in on the oblivious girl. Keeping her steps light, Lady made her way to the wolf that looked like it was the strongest one in the pack.

Concealed but close to the pack, Lady watched as the girl realised she wasn’t alone any more. Lyanna looked from one wolf to the other with calm, but it did not last. The alpha near Lady hadn’t moved, but the rest of the pack were closing in on the girl frantically checking her body for something.

Steel. Human liked to fight with steel.

Lyanna didn’t seem to have any and looked ready to run, but it seemed she knew the odds were against her and didn’t attempt outrunning wolves.

“Please…” the girl begged the smaller wolves, but the closest was making snaps near her with their jaws. Lady wanted to intervene, but that other part of her told her to wait. She didn’t want to wait, but she trusted that other part of herself to know what it was doing.

The hunting pack was dangerously close now and any sudden movements by the girl would get her killed.

  _Go._

Lyanna was whimpering and the hunting pack was too close for Lady’s liking. She snarled and Lyarra’s pup cried in fear, likely thinking she was going to die.

Darting towards the strongest wolf, Lady easily overpowered the alpha and knocked it against a tree. The intrusion into the pack’s hunt drew the attention to Lady and they converged towards her, leaving the girl alone, who was shaking on top of her rock and not making a sound.

Lady always attacked the ones that looked like the strongest wolves, and the pack was angry that Lady had hurt their alpha.

She didn’t spot one wolf in time and felt its claw slash against her belly.

Her howl of pain seemed to please the pack, who fought with energy, but Lady wasn’t going to let these smaller wolves defeat her.

Never before had she fought against other wolves like this; seriously, with the intention to harm. But she was not going to fail Lyarra and let her pup die when Lady was so close.

On she fought and slowly, multiple wolves fighting together against her, she defeated them one by one before the remaining two yielded to her and ran away. She’d forced herself to stay standing while those wolves ran, but once they were gone she lowered herself onto the forest floor and stayed off her belly slash.

Pain. And so much of it.

She did not know how a smart wolf fought and had used her much larger size to defeat those wolves in the hunting pack. Focussing on her breathing, Lady glanced at the rock once and saw Lyarra’s pup was safe and did not bleed.

After a few minutes, Lady felt that other part of her tell her to get up and go back to the castle. She didn’t know what good that would do, but she was a direwolf and would not give up easily.

Taking slow steps towards the rock, Lady saw the way that the pup shook on it. “Please…”

Reaching up with her head, Lady pushed the pup off the rock and saw as she fell to the ground and lifted a hand to her face. “Don’t. Please…”

Lady needed to rest soon and couldn’t stay here much longer or those other wolves would wake up. Spotting a flappy bit of fur on the girl, Lady pulled it up and Lyanna was on her feet and looking at Lady with a shocked expression. “Is that…Lady? You fought them off?” she asked, not believing what she was looking at. “Thank you.”

That other part of Lady understood what the girl was saying and urged Lady to get back to Winterfell.

Listening to it, Lady began her journey back and Lyarra’s pup stayed with her and within her sight. Following her tracks from before, it wasn’t too difficult to know where to go, but there was a pain in her every step. Most of the time she managed to be quiet, but sometimes a whimper escaped Lady when a step was too harsh and pulled the skin of her belly in a way that was too painful to not whine.

Once they were on the flat trail, it was much easier for Lady to endure the steps but she was so tired from the pain. Part of her wanted to check her legs for blood and Lady didn’t resist it. Looking there was only a little blood and that other part of her calmed down a lot, making it easier for Lady to focus on getting back home.

“I’m sorry, Lady. I know it hurts, but we’re nearly there. I didn’t think it would happen,” Lyanna was saying to her. “Nothing normally goes there.”

The castle was close now, so Lady unleashed a howl and hoped that Lyarra would hear it.

Eventually, the two were in the courtyard and Lady settled herself on her side, Lyanna didn’t wander off and stayed close.

“By the gods! What happened, Lyanna?” Lady’s eyes looked at the voice and found Lyarra with Brandon beside her. The woman closed the gap and knelt near the wound and was touching it with her fingers, and Lady did her best not to whimper. “Lyanna, I must know what happened.”

The girl swallowed and nodded to her mother. “I went to the creek with the rock. The one nothing goes near? I thought it would be alright. I was wrong. Wolves were hunting in the Wolfswood and found me. Lady must have followed me. She found me and fought off the hunting pack. One of them got her belly and it hurts her to walk.”

Lyarra was petting Lady with one hand while touching the cut with the other. Lady whined. “I know it hurts, sweet girl. I know it hurts. Need to see how bad it is.” There were people gathering around the scene and Lyarra looked to her son. “Brandon, you’re the acting lord. Now would be a good time to be like one,” she instructed her oldest pup before turning to the girl. “Lyanna, I need wine and needle and thread. It’s a shallow cut, but a tender place.”

The boy walked towards the biggest group of people. “Stay clear of the area. It’s not convenient, I understand, but Lady Stark will struggle if the direwolf is distressed by a crowd. Stay clear of here until told otherwise,” he spoke in a voice that spread across the courtyard.

Lady could see that most of the people left, while some stayed near windows and watched through them. She whined and Lyarra followed her gaze and sighed. “Brandon. Windows.”

“Men,” he called out to the guards. “I want the doors and windows blocked for all but my family.”

They hesitated but did as they were told; at least that was the feeling the other part of herself told Lady. People were no longer watching Lady because they couldn’t.

Soon after Lyanna came running towards them carrying a few things in each hand. She came to a quick stop next to Lyarra. “Here…,” she said to her mother out of breath. “Wine…needle and…thread.” Doing something to the metal with liquid in it, Lyanna was still talking to her mother. “I didn’t know…about the wolves…Never before.”

Lyarra nodded absently and took the thing from her girl. “Relax for me, Lady, and this will be over quickly.”

Part of Lady told her to do what Lyarra was saying and that it would hurt more if she didn’t. This new part made Lady able to understand what human said, meaning she knew what they wanted or meant.

Something wet, wine, touched the claw marks and Lady yelped at the sting she felt from it.

_Don’t fight her, Lady. Wine helps to heal._

Lady wanted to heal and tensed herself so she didn’t toss too much.

“Hold still, Lady. I need to pour it on the others,” Lyarra told her before turning to the girl. “Get my bolt of cotton.”

The wet sting was back again and Lady growled at the dirt, her eyes closed.

“Three more, Lady.”

And three more time Lady endured the sting.

There was a gentle touch to her face. “I’m sorry. I’ve been to that rock lots of times and there were never any wolves.”

“Brandon, keep her still if you can.”

Lady didn’t like the sound of that.

_Lyarra will close your wound, but it will hurt. Don’t fight it._

She really didn’t want more pain, but part of her told her to let the lady get it done without trouble.

Two hands pressed along her ribs firmly, and Lady tensed in anxiety.

“Shhh, rest Lady.”

The place where Lyarra was positioned felt soft skin rub near but not on from her slash.

_Relax, Lady. Lyarra can’t do it right if you’re tense._

Taking a breath, Lady closed her eyes and did her best.

The skin of her deepest slash was brought together and there was a quick touch of cold steel.

Lady pulled her head from Lyanna’s petting and looked to her belly where she’d felt the steel and whined. Nothing was gone, but the place where she’d felt Lyarra’s hand hold the slashed skin together was now held together by what was attached to a skinny piece of steel.

And that part wasn’t bleeding anymore.

But she’d been touched with steel.

“Will you let me do the rest, Lady?”

She hesitated for a long time and looked at the part not bleeding. She didn’t want to bleed and reluctantly put her head down on the dirt again.

“Let go of her, Brandon. I don’t believe it necessary anymore.”

The hands left her ribs and Lady closed her eyes while that skinny piece of steel pulled something through her skin and brought it together to stop bleeding. It hurt a lot, but no bleeding meant she would live.

She wanted to live and she hadn’t been alive for much longer than this last time.

“That’s it, Lady. You’re doing really well.”

If Lyarra could finish soon that would be good too.

Taking a breath, Lady looked at the girl in front of her as she touched her face. “I’m sorry. You’re a scary fighter, you know that? I didn’t know it was you.”

“Lyanna, not now.”

Closing her eyes again, Lady relaxed her belly, like the other part of her kept telling her to, so Lyarra could finish stopping Lady’s bleeding.

“Almost there, Lady.”

She felt the skinny steel – _needle_ – begin on the smallest of her slashes and she breathed for a little once Lyarra was done.

“Stand up for me, Lady,” Lyarra instructed her, and Lady complied. “Brandon, we need to wrap the slashes in this cotton. I’ll pass the bolt to you under her belly and I want you to pass it to me over her back.” The girl gave the white thing to her mother, who began doing as she’d described to the boy.

They didn’t do it for very long, but for a moment Lyanna started babbling to Lady again, drawing her attention, and then with a tug, Lyarra said they were finished.

Her wounds felt sore, but that other part of her said it would help her heal faster, so Lady didn’t make a fuss.

Lyarra dismissed Brandon and Lyanna, who left the courtyard with everything that's been brought here. Lady was patient and nuzzled the hand Lyarra was rubbing against her nose. “Thank you for protecting Lyanna, Lady. You will be healed soon, but a lot of rest inside. The warmth of the Great Hall will protect you.”

Using one leg, Lady carefully made markings in the snow that a part of her was telling her to make.

**S.S 286 AC – 312 AC**

**=**

**S.T 265 AC -**

Lyarra was looking at them with confusion. “The second is obvious, but the first? That’s a decade from now, and a year of death? How is that possible?”

Something in Lady told her to wipe the snow before anyone else saw it and she did.

Lyarra took Lady inside the Great Hall and had the fire fed more wood before sitting herself down on one of the benches. “265. That’s Sansa Tully’s first year. Not to mention she’s betrothed to a Lannister, not a Stark. The first part couldn’t be right. And Lady can write? Warging, it must be, but who? ”

Lady watched as the woman was getting frustrated, taking off her gloves and running fingers through her hair.

“What are you trying to tell me, Lady?”

Sansa awoke and found herself disoriented despite the fact she was sitting upright like all the other ladies. In the wheelhouse, it was a quiet affair as Catelyn was also sleeping while Ashara and Elia were passing the time with quiet talk.

_Gods, what did I just do?_

In a moon she would be arriving at the Eyrie, but would Lyarra be there?


	36. Gates of Cells and Moons

PETYR BAELISH

_Day 16, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Looking through the bars that separated his chamber from the chamber of Cersei Lannister after arriving almost a sennight ago, Petyr felt that the time he had invested here at the Citadel hadn’t been long enough for success. Disappointing, he had to admit, but it hadn’t been as productive as he’d originally hoped by getting himself into this position deliberately.

Dressed and having broken his fast earlier, Petyr glanced at his young reflection in a small looking glass and was at a loss of what was going on with himself.

When he'd be killed by the hands of a person he'd seen as a pawn, Petyr had never anticipated waking inside a body of an eight year old.

The fact that he was alive was what mattered.

He’d desired the Iron Throne in his previous life, that was true, but the problem with satisfying one desire was that it would always be replaced by wanting something bigger and greater. When he’d obtained a ship during his days as Master of Coin, he’d then desired a dozen ships. 

Since waking to the period of his boyhood, he’d been working towards becoming a man of power and influence once again. He'd climbed high before his unpredictable demise at the hands of his most important pawn.

A few discoveries about this new world were different to what he knew, but most of his history was still intact.

Knowledge is power.

And Petyr had knowledge in abundance now and in the prime era to use it. As always, he needed to be careful how he wielded it if he was to securely sit the Iron Throne, now that he once again had the chance to.

However, there had been something of a rough beginning. Especially with his position as Hoster Tully’s ward apparently stripped from him, along with both elder Tullys wary of him concerning the girls. House Tully had been the house that last time assisted his climb of the ladder.

He’d first awoken young again at the campsite of House Royce as Yohn Royce’s cupbearer with their version of events, not the same to what he’d known.

Petyr had endured the bruising to his ego and reaped knowledge as a reward.

At the tourney, he’d spoken to many people to gather information, and learnt that the only differences compared to his past was a handful of facts pertaining to only Houses Lannister and Tully.

 

-Sansa Tully, a girl with renown, was an alleged middle daughter of Hoster and Minisa Tully.

-Petyr had been drawn to Sansa and gotten himself sent back to the Fingers by Hoster Tully.

-The Martells and the Tullys were on good terms.

-Cersei Lannister had disgraced the Lannister name and was on bad terms with Tywin Lannister.

-Jaime Lannister was betrothed to Sansa Tully instead of Lysa Tully, and the two got on well.

 

Petyr couldn’t recall any of that happening before, but now it had he was thrown off balance. One way or another, Sansa Tully, a girl that looked damningly like Sansa Stark from memory, was involved in those facts; directly or indirectly.

Since he no longer had the support of House Tully, he’d hoped to obtain it from House Lannister by turning Cersei into someone that at least acted like a civil person; the most likely reason Tywin Lannister was hiding her in the Citadel. That, however, had proven slow-going so far. She was determined to get out of the Citadel and return to her brother, that was true, but she was letting her ego get in the way.

Petyr, unlike Cersei, was unattached to his ego and allowed it to be treated how others wished to. While Petyr would not let insults and the like bother him, Cersei was the complete opposite and expected everyone to kneel to her and kiss the ground she walked.

The extent of her obsession about Jaime Lannister was concerning for Petyr; the pair could fuck one another like rabbits for all he cared, but if she was too fixated on her brother to learn from Petyr, then he would never gain the Lannister support from he needed by having them in his debt. Should that be true, he would cut his losses and find another Great House to endear himself to.

But he didn’t have many or any options. The Tullys, as shown by Blackfish, hated him. The Starks had no connection to him. The Arryns were aware of his misdeed at Riverrun. The Baratheons had no connection. The Tyrells would see no opportunity or benefit by associating with him. The Martells were in league with the Tullys. The Greyjoys would be useless. And considering the Targaryens was suicidal.

He needed the Lannisters’ support.

And the Lannisters needed Cersei to redeem herself.

_If that was at all possible._

Petyr highly doubted this venture at the Citadel would yield him anything from what he’d seen, but the Lannisters were desperate and would thank him if he succeeded.

And they would have a debt to pay in form of gold or a favour.

And like it or not, Petyr needed that favour. Great Houses valued their reputations.

Through the bars, he witnessed Cersei screaming demands for release at the person delivering her the bland breaking of fast.

_A Great House would make me rise. However, this pursuit will need demonstration apparently. Words and reason don’t work with her, not that they ever had._

He would play the redeeming boy and get himself some time outside of his cell of a chamber, then see if she would listen to his advice.

That would decide his next course of action.

Petyr wanted to outwit the eunuch this time before Varys became part of the Small Council and proceeded to whisper in the Mad King’s ear.

But Petyr was merely a child at the current time.

Aerys could keep the Iron Throne warm until Petyr had enough influence to take it. The Targaryen’s upcoming deeds would create the chaos Petyr needed to climb.

 

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 23, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Inside the wheelhouse, he’d shared with Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon for nearly two moons now, Jaime looked to the two boys that acted like brothers would. Stark seemed to be the one that often talked sense into Baratheon, who was always eager to do something dramatic and damn the consequences.

But no matter how much the two older boys seemed to annoy each other with their different personalities, both of them cared and called the other their brother in all but blood.

“- don’t see the advantage of using a hammer,” Jaime said to Robert while Ned was calmly listening.

“No matter where it hits, damage is done and they get weak.”

Ned adjusted in his seat. “Everyone has a style and weapon that is best for them. Why not spar at the Gates of the Moon and be done with the arguing?”

Jaime glanced at Ned and grinned. “Volunteering, Ned?”

The Stark raised his hands and shook his head. “No, no, not I. You two seemed convinced about your swords and hammers.”

Robert laughed and slapped one of Ned’s shoulders. “Come on, Ned. What do you think? Sword or hammer?”

“You’ve never seen me use a hammer, Robert,” he reasoned looking reluctant to have said it.

Jaime laughed as he watched the mock betrayed look on Robert’s face. “What he means is that swords are better. Honestly, you need two hands for hammers and swinging it leaves your body vulnerable.”

The Baratheon heir snorted. “Not if you knock the sense out of them first. Saying you’re slow, Jaime?” Robert retorted, and Ned had a small smile while looking at the other boy.

“Not at all,” Jaime immediately replied. “I’m saying I’d rather not die.”

Robert shook his head. “That’s what a weakling says.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Ned huffed and looked to both of them. “Will you two drop it? Your bickering is giving me a headache and we’re almost at the Gates of the Moon.”

Jaime nodded and settled into his seat. “Spar?” he asked Robert.

“Spar.”

Secretly, Jaime agreed that debating about which weapon was strategically superior was tiring. He knew which one he thought was smarter, but Robert Baratheon didn’t really seem to see it the same way that he did and was persistent about what was better.

Robert Baratheon wasn’t bad company, but to be honest he preferred to chat and spend time with Ned instead. Although a quieter person, he was still fine to talk to and didn’t seem as interested in causing mischief; Robert, on the other hand, liked spending his time causing mischief and around or talking about girls, but to a point that it was a bit too much for Jaime and annoyed him.

Mischief was fun for a bit, but too much of it just made things boring for Jaime and made him wonder when they would get caught.

Another thing he’d noticed about Robert, to not have you’d need to be blind, was the way the oldest boy acted and talked about girls. He was fourteen while Jaime was only ten, but what Jaime understood from Aunt Genna’s lessons about manners, Robert wasn’t being very respectful.  Unlike Jaime and Ned, Robert would hold and touch tavern maids more than what was right, but the girls never said anything or seemed upset.

While Robert and Jaime were both the heirs of their houses, Jaime felt as though he was more likely to be friends with quiet and girl-shy Ned than stubborn and loud Robert. Ned didn’t know what warden duties were like, but other than that the boy didn’t seem like a bad person to become friends with.

Jaime would just know Robert and take it no further.

“So what is it like being fostered? And at the Eyrie with Lord Arryn?” Jaime asked, curious about what it was like being raised in a house not your own.

“I don’t have to deal with Stannis,” Robert replied, glancing at the high castle coming into view far above them in the distance.

Ned rolled his eyes and was looking to Jaime. “That’s probably not what you wanted to know,” Ned guessed and Jaime shook his head. “I was sent here when I was eight. My parents had already taught me about being a Stark and living in the North-“

“He doesn’t want to know your life story, Ned.”

Jaime responded before Robert said more. “Aye, I do want to know.”

Ned tilted to his head towards Jaime while looking at Robert. “Seems he does. So, if you don’t mind…?”

“Alright, alright. If you must.”

“Thank you.” Ned turned his attention back to Jaime. “So, I knew about my house and the North, then I came here. The Eyrie is windier and higher than Winterfell, but that was about the only difference to home. At the start, I found it strange that Lord Arryn was being so kind and treating me more than a guest. After about a year though it was like he was an uncle. Now he’s like a second father.”

To Jaime, it sounded like they were just living in another castle instead of home, but there had to be more to it than that. “So, have you done or learnt anything you never imagined happening at Winterfell or Storm’s End?”

“Aye,” replied Robert. “Ned here is more of a brother than my real brother.”

That got him interested. “Why? I know Stannis isn’t exciting, but he is your brother.”

“No, we share blood, but not much more than that.”

Ned looked thoughtful and gave an answer of his own. “We’re taught what’s important to House Arryn; like honour. Jon includes me in his lessons about being a warden for Robert and Elbert. I’m a second son, but Jon said it’s leadership all the same and even a vassal lord needs to know it.”

“Jon?” Jaime parroted, hearing the casual way they talked about presumably Jon Arryn.

Robert smiled. “Aye, we call him ‘Jon’. Ned called him ‘Lord Jon’ for a year, but at the Gates of the Moon or the Eyrie and just the Arryns around we call him ‘Jon’.”

“Why? Isn’t that rude?”

 “Not if he tells you to.”

Jaime rolled his eyes at the unhelpful answer from Robert. Ned nodded to Jaime for a second and spoke. “That’s why I called him ‘Lord Jon’. It was what I was taught before and it took a while to realise I was staying here for a long time. One day, he sat me down and told me to think of him as an uncle, but call him ‘Jon’ instead.”

“Have your families visited you here?”

Robert shook his head. “Not mine or Ned’s.”

Jaime knew asking about Stannis was pointless, and looked to Ned. “Do you miss your brothers and sister?”

The Northerner nodded. “I do sometimes. Winterfell will always be my true home; the Gates of the Moon is a second home, I guess. I hope to see Benjen soon after seeing the others at Riverrun, he was only four when I fostered here.”

Robert shifted in his seat. “Why do you ask about fostering?”

“I’m squiring in King’s Landing after the wedding. I imagine it will be similar to fostering, but more about being a knight than being a lord,” Jaime explained and saw Ned smiling in understanding. “Asking about it seemed like a good idea.”

“Ser Arthur Dayne,” Robert said slowly. “One of the best knights in the Seven Kingdoms. How’d your father convince him?”

Ned glanced at Robert out of the corner of his eye but seemed to be thinking the same thing when he said nothing.

“Father didn’t convince him,” Jaime said plainly. “He convinced Father.”

“You’re bloody japing!”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Jaime grinned, looking at their surprised faces. “He spoke to Father before the Closing Feast and Father told me after,” Jaime shared eagerly. “I didn’t do anything I can think of that would have made him want me.”

Ned smiled while Robert was shaking his head in disbelief. “Congratulations, Jaime. Squiring for a Kingsguard knight is a high honour.”

“You listen to Jon too much, Ned,” Robert remarked as the wheelhouse jolted to a stop and the door was opened. “Jaime, don’t be stiff and formal here,” Robert commented idly as he climbed out of the wheelhouse. “Ned and me are home, and the only lord and lady here will be the Arryns.”

_That wasn’t technically true._

At the beginning of the journey from Riverrun, Robert had addressed him using his name just like now. Jaime himself wasn’t fond of being formal, but Mother and Aunt Genna had always taught him to be respectful to people from other houses for things like this, and so he had been.

And using someone’s given name without their leave was not part of it.

Robert, however, had made it clear from the beginning and practically told Jaime to call him ‘Robert’ in the wheelhouse. Eddard, in a more diplomatic way, said calling him ‘Eddard’ was fine as well; later after getting to know Jaime from the shenanigans of the three boys, welcomed him to call him ‘Ned’ instead.

Jaime just smirked. “Stiff? After being in this wheelhouse for so long, I don’t think that will be a problem, Robert. I’m tired of being stiff.”

Turning towards Jaime, Ned met his eyes. “So long as we don’t forget ourselves.”

“No, of course not,” Robert said, drawing Jaime’s attention. “Ned has a girl to impress. And you, Lannister.”

Jaime rolled his eyes at the Baratheon heir. “Give it a rest, Robert. You’re just jealous that Ned and I have one,” Jaime retorted, making Robert snort and Ned glance away with an amused smile.

“Jealous?” the broader boy repeated back. “Of you two? You’re betrothed, and Ned might as well say he is.”

“Robert, don’t bring Lady Ashara into your japes,” Eddard told his foster brother, which just made Robert laugh.

“You’re smitten about her. She’s the lady of her own house now, and your family is coming here. Might as well make it official, Ned,” Robert remarked casually like it was the weather, not impressing Jaime with the lack of manners. Not that Robert ever showed some. “Jaime, you’re the man with all the betrothal experience. How dull and boring is it stuck with a girl?”

It angered Jaime that Robert said such a thing without knowing Sansa. “Lady Sansa is not dull and boring, Robert. She’s nice and a smart person.”

“Nice and sm-?”

Ned sighed from where he stood. “Robert,” he interrupted, making Robert pause. “We’ll see you at the barracks for that spar.”

Servants were taking the bags inside and after a moment there were fewer people in the passageway. “I’ll get my armour on and we can see if a sword is better than my hammer in combat.”

Getting out of the way and moving to the side of the stables so Ned could do the same, Jaime looked at the close cluster of seven white towers high above them that was the Eyrie; the smallest Great House castles if he had to guess.

“I’m sorry about Robert, Jaime,” Ned began quietly. “He doesn’t see some things the way I do. You and Lady Sansa are good people, and the way he talks about her and Lady Ashara since the tourney bothers me sometimes,” the second Stark son explained to him and turned to look at the Eyrie.

“Does he know it bothers you?”

Ned turned back to him and shook his head. “He’s only known about Lady Ashara since the tourney. He’ll stop in time, I’m sure.”

Jaime couldn’t hold back the snort.

“You don’t think so?”

Jaime shook his head. “Only if you don’t say anything. Look, Ned, I don’t know Robert well enough and you only slightly better, but saying nothing won’t change it.”

Ned took the lead into the Gates of the Moon, and Jaime followed. “He doesn’t really change his ways unless he has to.”

That caught Jaime’s interest. “What do you mean?”

Ned looked to him while leading the way. “Lord Jon teaches both of us, but Robert doesn’t always listen.”

Jaime nodded in understanding, he didn’t have anything to compare to that but he understood. A thought came to him. “Do you and Robert ever fight?”

“No, there’s never been a reason to. Robert’s been a friend for years,” Ned replied turning to him.

He followed Ned through the Gates of the Moon.

He had a spar to win.

 

RICKARD STARK

Dismounting his horse and lifting his son out of the saddle, Rickard led it by the reins to one of the stableboys of the Gates of the Moon who approached the lord and son.

The journey from Winterfell to the Gates of the Moon had been a gruelling one. Its beginning was a hasty ride to White Harbour with his party of men, getting the horses onto one of the fastest ships which sailed past the Fingers and inland to Heart’s Home; the castle of an Arryn vassal house, Corbray. From there was a swift but paced ride across the largest Vale valley, spared the treacherous journey to the Eyrie by the Arryns currently using the Gates of the Moon until the weather grew warmer.

The stableboy took the reins while a servant removed the saddlebags of Rickard and Benjen. A different servant, donned in an Arryn surcoat, approached with a bow while the other left with their bags. “Lord Stark, the other lords including Lord Arryn arrived not a great time before yourself and your son,” he informed Rickard. “My name is Gwayne, I could lead you to Eddard if you wish?”  

“Ned!” cried Benjen in excitement. The boy hadn’t seen Ned for four years, but they’d been close brothers before the fostering.

“To my son, if you would,” Rickard replied and followed Gwayne through the passage which opened up into a well-lit barracks.

Inside was the commotion of combat training between two boys; one was wielding a war hammer and had the Baratheon build, while a young boy with Lannister hair used a sword and shield. Presumably Jaime Lannister, the boy was quick on his feet and looked as though the sword was an extension of his own body while he fought. Robert’s swings of the war hammer were sure and precise, but the Lannister boy exercised agility that frustrated Steffon’s son.

It was an interesting fight to watch with such contrasting techniques and weapons, but the movement of Benjen fidgeting beside him caught Rickard’s attention.

“Ned!” Benjen called out, drawing the eyes of Eddard who rose and came over to Rickard and Benjen, who threw his arms around his brother.

The enthusiasm of Benjen made Rickard smile as he enjoyed watching them reunite after so long. Ned’s own smile made it clear he’d missed his younger brother.

Looking to his father, Ned met Rickard’s eyes and bowed his head. “Father. I’m happy to see you again. Mother was looking well.”

Resting a hand on his shoulder, Rickard smiled to his son and gave the shoulder a squeeze. “She had only good things to say about you, Ned, and sends her love. Brandon and Lyanna are with her at Winterfell.”

He expected the surprise in Ned’s expression, who was confused by what he’d just said. “Brandon’s at Winterfell? What about the Dustins?”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. A conversation for another time, Ned,” he told him, knowing that there would be no persistence from him. Glancing to Benjen standing beside Ned, Rickard could see that words were waiting to spill from Benjen’s lips. “It seems your brother wants to say something,” Rickard prompted and Ned looked to the youngest Stark.

“You’re big.”

Rickard couldn’t stop the chuckle Benjen’s comment caused and observed his sons.

Eddard ruffled Benjen’s hair a little. “It’s been a long time, Benjen. I see you have grown too,” Ned replied, looking over the younger boy. It was true that Benjen had grown in those four years and it showed.

“Did you have to be gone so long?” Benjen complained to Ned, looking up to meet his brother’s grey eyes. Benjen’s blue ones were expressive and told a silent story on their own.

Leading both of his sons over to a balcony that overlooked the sparring area, Rickard watched his son as Ned took a seat and could see that the boy had grown up noticeably since leaving Winterfell. Ned behaved in some ways that were absent in Brandon when Rickard departed.

Mayhaps Ned’s inclusion in Jon’s lessons on being a warden had played a part in that difference. He doubted that Lord Dustin had given Brandon similar lessons, but Rickard intended to give his own to his heir upon returning to Winterfell.

Sitting down next to Ned, Rickard wrapped an arm around the boy’s back. It was clear that Ned wasn’t sure how to answer Benjen’s question. “Is Ned your favourite brother, Benjen? I don’t remember you being like this when Brandon returned to Winterfell.”

Ned looked to Rickard with a question on his lips and Rickard nodded his answer; aye, Benjen didn’t make this much of a fuss when he saw Brandon.

“Brandon came back sometimes,” Benjen answered his father, which was a truth both of them knew. “Ned was always gone.”

Rickard saw the way that Ned gave his younger brother a squeeze. “I’m a long way from Winterfell, Benjen.”

“I know,” Rickard’s youngest huffed. “It took a long time to get here.”

Curious about how Ned was faring here in the Vale, Rickard turned on his seat so his eyes met Ned’s. “Your letters seemed like everything was going well here, but was there anything that couldn’t be in a letter, Ned?” he prodded, wanting to be there for his son although limited in how much he could help.

His middle son shook his head and gave a calm smile. “All’s well here, Father. The Arryns are a very kind house and there’s never a problem between me and Robert either.”

Nodding in satisfaction, Rickard relaxed and lost the worry he hadn’t known he had. Jon Arryn was a man that Rickard trusted, but hearing the words from his son’s mouth that all was well was relieving to hear. Despite Ned being the second son it did not mean Rickard cared less about how Ned was faring. A Stark son was a Stark son and nothing would ever change that.

“Ned, Ned,” Benjen said with his eyes lit with excitement. “Father said you’re coming to Winterfell after the wedding. Will you stay? You have to stay. You’re my brother. And we have a direwolf now.”

“Benjen-?”

Seeing confusion aplenty about to unfold, Rickard rested a hand on Benjen’s shoulder and the boy looked to him. “Benjen, Ned will visit Winterfell, but he is being fostered here. After a moon or so Ned will return here.”

Most of the excitement in his youngest immediately disappeared. “Oh,” Benjen said before looking to Ned again. “It’s going to be so great having you home. We have a direwolf, Ned. One of our sigil. A direwolf. She’s really kind and saved Lyanna from a hunting pack. Her name’s Lady, Mother said.”

Ned was staring at Benjen dumbstruck after hearing about Lady and Rickard saw the way his middle son looked to him wanting to know whether Benjen’s words were truth. “Every word of it, Ned,” Rickard confirmed and watched as Ned’s eyes were of disbelief.

“Gods,” Ned muttered looking around the area as though to shake the shock off. “A direwolf?” His son looked to Rickard. “How did it even get to Winterfell? Direwolves stay north of The Wall, don’t they?”

Benjen got up from his seat and stood near Ned. “Not this one,” Benjen said happily, smiling as he spoke. “Lady lives in the godswood and hunts in the Wolfswood. I play with her and Mother talks to her.”

The doubt in his middle son was clear. “That doesn’t sound like a direwolf,” Ned remarked, rubbing his bottom lip. “That sounds like a pet, Benjen. And why would Mother talk to this direwolf? It’s an animal, not a person.”

Rickard could sympathise with his son’s confusion about Lady’s behaviour and overall friendliness towards humans. Of what was written in books about direwolves, and not a great amount either, they were depicted as creatures that lived apart from humans with the exception of the Winter Kings. The limited knowledge about direwolves contained nothing detailed about human-direwolf interaction but based on the fact it was a species of wolf one would think they weren’t overly friendly.

“We accommodate her in the godswood, Ned,” Rickard told his son. “She seems to understand human speech, hence your mother talking to her. Responds to the word ‘Lady’, which none of us named her. Lady tolerates Benjen piling snow on her back but shakes it off and buries him in it.” Ned laughed at that while Benjen grumbled about wanting to tell Ned. “But no, Ned, she simply lives at Winterfell and will continue to unless she becomes a danger to our family.”

“Rickard, it’s been a while,” spoke the voice of the Vale’s warden.

Rising to his feet, he approached Jon while hearing his two boys chattering behind him.

Following the man for a while and entering a solar, he watched as Jon closed the door and took a seat at the table where he poured himself and Rickard a goblet of wine.

Lifting the goblet, Rickard swirled it and took a sip. “Want to discuss the reason we’re here, I imagine?” he guessed and saw Jon nod his head. “I never imagined Arryns and Martells. Why?”

Jon took a sip of his own and rested the goblet on the table. “I have no surviving sons, or children for that matter, Rickard. My nephew is hale and healthy and old enough to marry. A wife from a Vale house is not a promising gamble for my house’s survival; history’s shown that repeatedly.”

The reasoning for not doing the same thing again and expecting a different result was sound, but there was more to be considered. “Elia Martell was a weak babe herself, Jon. Even if she and her future babes survive the Vale, what do you intend to do about everything else? The Martells were never part of the plan.”

Taking another sip, Jon nodded. “Yes, they never were, but unless one of the others tells them, they’re in the dark about this.”

Rickard drank some of the wine while the men sat in silence, but Rickard shared his thoughts on the matter. “As the kingdoms marry they will notice or suspect what we’re doing. Especially once my daughter marries Robert Baratheon. The Martells once married the Targaryens but not again since; their oath of loyalty would have ideally waned to neutrality. Princess Elia is marrying your nephew and joining your house to theirs, but Princess Mariah would be the Martell paying attention to us as well as the wedding.”  

Jon hummed in agreement. “I concluded as much myself. We can’t let on anything while she’s here; sensitive discussions, nothing. She is due to arrive in a few days; started her voyage later apparently.” Jon didn’t look concerned but it was apparent that something was on his mind, so Rickard gestured for him to spit it out. “Brynden Tully.”

“What about him?” Rickard asked, wondering where this was going.

Leaving the empty goblet on the table, Jon got up from his seat. “He was watching us at the tourney; Tywin, Steffon, and myself. Sometimes he spotted at least two of us together and had a strange expression. I think he’s catching on. I spoke to Hoster about his brother, but the man swears he never breathed a word to Brynden.”

Rickard could see there weren’t a lot of choices concerning the man. “There’s no point hiding it from him,” Rickard pointed out. “Hoster Tully was a scheming one in the war, and Brynden grew up with the man. He was bound to figure out that his brother is involved in something,” Rickard remarked, swirling the remains of his wine in the goblet.

“Hmm.”

“One daughter to a Stark and another to a Lannister, I’d dare say that was enough to make Brynden notice,” Rickard added. “Now all of us but Tywin and Hoster in the Vale? The realm and king don’t know about Brandon and Catelyn, and wouldn’t have caught on, but we’re fooling ourselves if we believe Brynden Tully would not.”

“It wouldn’t be honourable to include Brynden without Tywin agreeing to it.”

Rickard snorted. “You’re japing. The man would refuse without hesitation. He only betrothed his son to Tully’s daughter when he needed a girl of favourable repute after Cersei’s shaming. Yes, he was at the talk after the Ninepenny Kings, but there was never any talk from him about betrothals until late last year. We organised Ned’s fostering when he was a babe.”

He watched as the Warden of the East sighed in frustration. “Tywin’s part of this now, we mustn’t make such a radical decision without his agreement.”

“One way or the other, Blackfish is going to work it out. He’s no lackwit,” Rickard reminded the man.

“Yes.”

Rickard drank the rest of his wine in one swig. “I’m not breaking the pact by telling him,” he told Jon. “But if he confronts me and knows, I’m not going to insult his intelligence and deny what we’re doing. He would be an asset, especially when the time comes.”

“That he would be,” Jon agreed reluctantly. “But I stand by my choice.”

Rickard looked out the window and shook his head. “All we need is a simple letter,” he said, getting up and using a spare piece of parchment for it.

 

_The excluded trout suspects. Include?_

_S.A.B_

 

“That should be sufficient,” Rickard commented, showing the letter to Jon. “Only he would know who in the Seven Hells ‘S.A.B’ is.”

Jon took the letter and sprinkled sand over the wet ink. “I’ll run the idea by Steffon and see what he says.”

_Steffon will probably agree._


	37. Unexpected Help

SANSA STARK

_Day 25, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

The morning air was fresh and crisp; the shaped mountains did not seem like the walls of a prison. The garrison wasn’t watching her every move.

This was freedom in the Vale.

Taking a breath of the air and releasing a sigh, Sansa wandered along the walls of the Gates of the Moon, for it was too dangerous to venture beyond the walls alone or in a small group. It was for that reason Grey Grace had stayed behind at Riverrun.

Here, at the Gates of the Moon, it was different this time; a better time.

Finding a tower that overlooked the godswood and gave her a view of the Vale she could lose herself to thought in, Sansa rested her hands on the stone and enjoyed the thawing winter Vale air that reminded her of Winterfell in summer. Standing on that tower and relishing in the calm peace and quiet, along with the wind, Sansa looked at nothing in particular as she gazed beyond the castle and remembered the two moons in the wheelhouse with Cat, Elia and Lady Ashara.

A pleasant journey filled with cheerful chatter about the wedding and Elia’s future with Elbert Arryn, who Elia had truly taken a liking to.

She hadn’t expected her gamble of presenting Elia to the Arryns at the tourney to result in the marriage. The act had been an attempt to spare Elia of her past fate in King’s Landing, and Sansa had succeeded in her hope; at least it seemed so this far. There was yet to have been anything to suggest that the match would be an unhappy one.

Inside that wheelhouse, it had been impossible for Catelyn and Lady Ashara to not realise how much of a friend Sansa considered Elia and vice versa. The princess began as the sister of a man who’d done a tremendous favour for Sansa more than once; then Elia’s endearing compassion and proof of trustworthiness had wedged through Sansa’s wall of courtesies. Elia didn’t know much beyond Braavos, but having a lady who was mentally similar in age was secretly relieving and freeing.

Cat and Ashara witnessed how Sansa and Elia got on and both had different reactions to it. Catelyn wasn’t overly curious about Sansa’s newest friend and commented that if she was friends with the princess’s brother, then it wasn’t all that different for Sansa to be friends with the princess as well.

Ashara Dayne was a little more intrigued and had paid much attention, but not hostile, during the journey here while getting to know Catelyn as well as Sansa. From Sansa’s understanding, Lady Ashara found it unusual that Elia was on such strong terms with a girl nearly half her age, and she wanted to know how it came to be. The Dornish woman had yet to know why it was so.

During the time in the wheelhouse, there had been more discussion on aspects of the wedding and the design of the dress than making the dress. A wheelhouse was not a stable environment to work on any finery for the dress. During the nights, however, when the convoy stopped at an establishment, all four of them had sat together and worked on the outer layer Elia desired for her gown.

_I truly hope Elia will be happy here._

It was truly becoming a masterpiece of a gown and the time Elia spent with Ser Elbert always ended with Elia returning with an expression of anticipation.

During those walks, Ashara had taken the opportunity to get to know Sansa better while Cat was with Uncle Brynden. It was interesting getting to know the woman who’d thrown herself from Starfall after Robert’s Rebellion and the alleged love interest of Eddard Stark.

Looking beyond the walls without seeing, Sansa imagined what Elia’s wedding would be like here at the Arryns’ winter home. She’d seen the sept they would marry in, the hall they would feast in and dance in; it would be a beautiful wedding and Elia would look stunning.

“You’re not the girl I expected when we met.”

Startled from her daydream, Sansa turned to see Ashara approach and join her side on the tower. “No, I imagine not,” she agreed with the sixteen-year-old lady and turned towards her. “What _did_ you expect, Ashara?”

Ashara did not hesitate. “More like your sister, if not younger, but considering your isolation in Harrenhal your maturity is understandable. There is, however, one exception though.”

“My friendship with Elia,” Sansa presumed, it was the most likely thing.

Beside her, Ashara nodded. “Exactly. You took to one another so quickly; quicker than us. It’s clear she cares greatly about you, as you do for her.”

“I pray you don’t begrudge me for it,” she replied, turning her gaze to Ashara and watching the lady’s reaction.

“Begrudge you? No. Your friendship with Elia makes her happy and I want that for Elia. Few are kind to her without wanting something,” Ashara told her calmly. “It is that you’re half her age I find strange, Sansa. A very unlikely friendship and of such strength, but I’ve seen for myself that it’s no mummery.”

Sansa was not stupid and could detect the hint in Ashara’s words. “Others would not understand.”

“No,” Ashara agreed quietly. “I’ve accepted it and gave you a chance without judgement despite the oddness of you and Elia, but I doubt others would be so generous.”

“I know,” she acknowledged and rested one hand over the other while looking ahead. “The lords and ladies have not seen what you did in the wheelhouse and would not understand.” Taking a breath, Sansa sighed and turned her gaze to Ashara once more. “I know some distance between her and I will be necessary now that we’re here.”

Ashara nodded and rested a hand on the stone in front of her. “I’m not saying this to keep you from Elia, Sansa. It would be a petty thing. I’m saying this so you don’t draw attention to your friendship with Elia while the Baratheons and Starks are here. As well as Elia’s mother. The Arryns are a little distracted at the moment. But the others, they would suspect foul play is afoot,” the Lady of Starfall explained to Sansa and placed her hand on Sansa’s.

“And what of us?” she asked, meeting the older girl’s eyes, wondering if Ashara meant the same for them as well. “Do you want me to be the same towards you, Ashara?”

Ashara smiled and she shook her head. “No. You’re a good person, Sansa, and a lady I’m glad to have gotten to know. We’re closer in age than you and Elia, I think we’ll be fine around the lords and ladies.”

There was one question on Sansa’s mind that she really wanted to have answered. “I appreciate your warning, Ashara, but why are you doing this? We only just met at the tourney.”

“Oberyn would not have introduced you to his sister if he didn’t trust you. He would die for her if need be.”

It was flattering to hear, but it didn’t tell Sansa why Ashara Dayne had slowly opened to her. “And your own decision?”

“You’re an interesting girl.”

_She’s being careful._

Sansa looked away and saw that Ashara’s hand was still sitting on hers. “But, Sansa, I do want to know you better.”

Nodding in understanding, Sansa glanced at the godswood and thought about Winterfell, the Starks, of Eddard. “Have you gotten to know Eddard? I saw you conversed from time to time.”

“Robert isn’t the most pleasant boy to speak with,” Ashara replied, but might as well not have because Sansa didn’t enjoy his company either. “But, yes, I have. He’s a nervous boy, a little quiet, but he’s polite.”

Sansa looked to Ashara and saw the way that the girl had a gentle smile that complimented her beauty. “Eddard doesn’t have wolfsblood like his brother and sister,” Sansa provided calmly, her eyes on the godswood. “I imagine that mayhaps their loud nature was easier for him to listen to than compete against before fostering here with the Baratheon heir. I saw his quiet ways when he first came to Riverrun.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Ashara said beside her. “He’s had dominant people around him since the beginning,” she agreed before turning to Sansa and drawing her eye. “He was a good help at the tourney though.”

This made Sansa curious. “What do you mean?”

Ashara fiddled with a loose lock. “When word of my brother’s death and me becoming the Lady of Starfall met many ears, boys and men began vying for my attention. Arthur is in the Kingsguard and I'm the youngest of my house. But Ned wasn’t like the males who clearly want Starfell, so I made it a point to be in his company more often than not. He was so nervous, but he did help.”

“That was considerate of Eddard,” Sansa spoke quietly, not sure how to feel about it. Cat was betrothed to Brandon Stark, but would the same events run their course?

“Hmmm, he didn’t have to, but he did it. It was kind of Ned.”

Sansa looked to Ashara out of the corner of her eyes and forced herself not to react in any particular way. “He is.”

Ashara removed her hand from Sansa’s and took a step away from the ledge. “Excuse me,” Ashara spoke clearly. “I do want to know you better, Sansa, but I must be going.”

Surprised, Sansa fell back onto her courtesies. “Of course, Ashara. I pray to see you at breaking of fast.”

“As do I.”

Remaining where she was, Sansa witnessed Ashara making a graceful but quick departure from the tower. Not sure what the sudden need to leave was, she assumed Ashara had forgotten something and Sansa left the tower herself.

The castle was quiet from so few people roaming its halls, but Sansa could navigate the Gates of the Moon well and found her way to the godswood with ease.

Her strides were slow. Fingers brushing the trunks of the weirwood trees that thrived in the soil of the valley floor. Bringing her hands together in front of her stomach, Sansa refrained from risking anyone here learning about her following of the old gods. The absence of going beyond the walls was a more than valid excuse for being here.

Things were so different now.

She was betrothed to Jaime while Cersei and Petyr were gods know where after shaming themselves. Lysa was arranged to be betrothed to a bannerman and wasn’t suffering from Petyr’s influence. Ashara was developing at least a friendship with Eddard and calling him ‘Ned’ already. Elia was days away from marrying Elbert Arryn.

It was so different now.

Her steps were quiet and didn’t disturb the peace of the godswood. This was the closest thing compared to Winterfell’s godswood she’d set foot in since she’d returned to Westeros. Seeing a well-sized rock beside one of the weirwood trees, Sansa settled herself down onto it instead of the trunk the weirwood itself.

That was associated with praying to the old gods, but the rock would not be.

Looking up to mountains that towered over the Gates of the Moon, Sansa gazed towards the clouds and lost her focus gazing at them. Images of her past in Winterfell flickering unseeingly through her mind, but they quickly changed to her memories of Riverrun. Of Mother, Father, Uncle Bryden, Cat, Lysa, Edmure and the twins.

She looked at her lap and shook her head slightly.

Her eyes turned to the snow on the floor of the godswood and she thought about Winterfell but struggled to until she recalled seeing Winterfell through the eyes of Lady. Whether it was dreaming or reality, she had to think about Lady at Winterfell if Sansa was to visualise Winterfell and consider it home at that moment.

Taking a breath, Sansa closed her eyes to think about Winterfell again and felt as though she became dizzy for a moment without moving at all.

She could see it. She could see Winterfell; undamaged, unblemished and covered in winter’s snow. There was a taste of lingering blood in her mouth, but Sansa refused to let it distract her. She could see Winterfell in all its glory. Emerging from the godswood, the courtyard came into sight and there appeared to be men she’d never seen talking to a boy her eyes did recognise.

“Lady, you’ll scare them.”

The sight of Winterfell disappeared and Sansa felt dizziness again. Opening her eyes, Sansa saw that the weirwood trees didn’t look as healthy as Winterfell’s.

They were the weirwoods of the Gates of the Moon.

Grasping her knees and remaining on the rock, a tear escaped her but she wiped it away with discretion.

_What was that? Did I fall asleep and dream again?_

Looking over her dress, Sansa could see that there was no dirt or other markings that would suggest she had. It was confusing and made little sense to her.

Rising from her rock she roamed the godswood for a while and turned when she heard the sound of boots on the snowy floor.

“Sansa,” Jaime spoke as he approached her with no hurry in his gait. “Frustrated about the mountain clans too?”

She was a little, but not as much as the rest of what was on her mind. “Some, but I understand we can’t go out there like Riverrun and Casterly Rock.”

“Yes, in the wheelhouse, Ned and Robert told me about the mountain clans,” Jaime agreed, joining her in her walk of the godswood.

Sansa hadn’t missed the use of ‘Ned’ instead of Eddard. “It sounds like you are good friends with them,” she commented, watching his reaction to see if she understood things right.

“I like Ned,” Jaime said, looking to her. “Robert’s alright most of the time, but I don’t like him as much as Ned.”

“Really?”

Jaime shrugged. "Yes. Robert can be a bit rude about some things, but I saw why they are friends; Ned was having doubts, but Robert explained that he’d be fine. The doubts were none of my business, they didn’t know I was there. Ned’s good and Robert isn’t bad.”

Sansa could pick up on the difference Jaime thought about Eddard and Robert, and while she had yet to see anything from Robert that made him decent, she knew that Jaime favoured being around Eddard and not Robert.

It was a peculiar thing for Jaime Lannister to be friends with Eddard Stark when Sansa thought about her past and what she knew about their interactions back then. Everything had been tense and or even violent in King’s Landing, but if she could stop it from occurring again she would.

During Westeros’ eleventh hour, it had taken much critical thinking instead of being emotional for her to adjust to the fact that an ally’s soldier had speared her father through the leg in the streets of King’s Landing. Many things had led to that fight and the injury to her father hadn’t been an act of cold blood by Jaime.

He had been involved, aye, but he hadn’t done or ordered the act himself. Yet, for a day or so after learning about it from Bran, Sansa had struggled to look the man in the eye without that knowledge coming to the front of her mind. Eventually, she had to let go of what had happened, because the man that had come to the North to help fight the Others had followed through with his oath, when Cersei no doubt spoke against him coming.

Now Sansa was betrothed to Jaime.

And Ned was becoming Jaime’s friend.

_The world had its japes._

Mentally shaking off the thoughts, she enjoyed walking with Jaime through the godswood. He didn’t say anything and neither did she, but the calm and peacefulness of her company lulled her into a sense of security. Without truly thinking about it when they paused, she palmed the trunk of a weirwood next to her. Realising just what she’d done she tried to pretend to just be regaining her balance, using the trunk for support.

“Got your balance back, Sansa?” Jaime asked her with hands on her shoulders to steady her faked tiny stumble.

She nodded in response. “Thank you, Jaime. I didn’t see the root under the snow. I pray you can forgive me.”

“You don’t need to apologise. It was just an accident,” he told her, letting go of her shoulders and resuming their walk.

“Thank you,” Sansa said gratefully, feeling lucky her mummer’s farce had worked.

But the guilt of lying to Jaime again was eating away at her.

_What has he done in this time to deserve a liar?_

She remained quiet for a little while until seeing the rock where she’d sat earlier. Taking the chance to sit down, Sansa made sure not to sit in the centre of it just in case Jaime wanted to rest. There was room for a second, although walking was not a tiring activity.

Looking up at the mountains, she pretended they were what she was actually thinking about, moving her head every now and again as though taking in the scenery.

Jaime broke the silence by talking quietly and taking the spare space. “I’ve never really cared much about who a person prays to,” he began gently, making Sansa’s calmed panic stir. “You have the Starks, who no doubt pray to the old gods like the North does; Lord and Lady Stark are nice, Ned too, but Brandon and Lyanna aren’t. Then you have my family; Father doesn’t pray, I pray to the Seven, and so did Cersei; but we’re all different. Gods don’t make a person who they are.”  

Sansa silently fought the alarm within herself, wondering it Jaime realised what he was alluding to; or if it was deliberate. Bidding herself to stay calm, she replied in an equally quiet voice. “Defining someone by who they worship is very presumptuous and can lead to error in judgement.”

Her eyes searched the godswood for anyone else in the area and stopped when it was clear only they were there.

It was tempting for her to peer at Jaime from the corner of her eye, but she kept her eyes ahead and gazing towards the mountains surrounded by clouds.

She felt his hand take one of her own and she looked to meet his eyes. “Who do you pray to Sansa?”

It felt like a bad dream, put in a position like this with part of her identity being questioned.

She could be a liar.

Or she could be honest.

But she had to be careful which path her betrothal to Jaime would take. One misstep could ruin everything.

This had to be a test of some kind; knowingly given or not.

_I’ve taken too long to answer._

She took a breath, let it out shakily and rested her hand on his holding her other one. “I pray to the old gods, Jaime,” she whispered, desperately watching his eyes.

Each of her hands was taken by one of Jaime’s. “Thank you, Sansa,” he spoke kindly and ran each thumb once over her knuckles.

She couldn’t believe her ears and was dumbfounded. “What?”

He gently smiled at her. “I said ‘Thank you’,” he repeated to her in the same tone as before.

“I know, Jaime, I know, but…but why?” she asked, not sure what to make of this. She’d had no choice for she’d hesitated for too long.

His hands still holding hers, but now resting her hands where their legs met, Jaime kept his eyes on her when he gave her hands a squeeze. “For being honest,” Jaime told her gently. “You told me, even though anyone would expect you to say ‘The Seven’.”

Sansa was finding it difficult to speak, but something had to be said and soon. Breathes shallow, Sansa leaned near his ear. “Can we discuss this inside?” she whispered and pulled back to see his answer.

He nodded and rose to his feet, releasing the hold of one hand while maintaining the other. Leaving the godswood without being overly hasty, Jaime led the way back inside.

Noticing they weren’t far from a chamber Sansa knew was rarely ever used, she steered their way towards it and he didn’t resist. Emotions were erratic in her mind, but Sansa managed to keep a weakening control over them. Opening the door and closing it again once they were inside, Sansa turned the lock discretely and went over to sit on the end of the bed.

“Sansa?” Jaime spoke, his eyes searching her own as she slightly shook where she sat. “Why are you afraid?”

Blinking and keeping her wetting eyes from releasing tears, she didn’t look away. “Imagine what your father would say if he knew?” she murmured. “A Tully praying to the olds gods instead of The Seven?”

Jaime didn’t say anything but rested a hand on her shoulder.

She continued. “So minor a thing, but to your father it would not be. He would not overlook it, Jaime.”

The situation was terrifying her; had she tried to lie after that hesitation, Jaime would have known. The picture of being the perfect Tully would have a tear in it if Jaime ever told Tywin.

The image she’d been creating for so long was now at risk.

“Sansa,” he said softly, placing his other hand on the remaining shoulder. “I don’t care who you pray to. I don’t care.”

Sansa’s breathes were quick and shallow. “He mustn’t know,” she pleaded him. “He mustn’t, Jaime.”

Jaime wiped one thumb below her left eye and placed his hand back on her shoulder, eyes never leaving hers. Green boring into the blue.

“Never.”

Her breath hitched and Sansa brought her hands up onto his shoulders, not daring to make her eyes leave his green ones.

“He won’t.”

She did not fight the forward pull on her shoulders and felt him hold her close, and that was all it took for the control of her fear to break and change into muffled sobs. Who she prayed to hadn’t mattered last time because she had been a Stark of the North and all had known it in King’s Landing.

But here and now it was a presumed fact that as a Tully she prayed to The Seven, and anything that spoke against it would have consequences of an extent that she could not afford.

Leaning into the embrace, Sansa wrapped her arms around Jaime as she silently shook.

“I don’t care, Sansa. It’s only prayer.”

Sansa's mind was flooded with the relief that he wouldn’t say a word of this single truth to his father, involuntary tears escaping their prison and wetting her face.

Burying her face into the nape of his neck, Sansa felt one hand move up her back and hover at the base of her neck before coming to rest against the back of her head.

“I promise.”

The words only made her cry harder.

 

JAIME LANNISTER

He could feel her shaking in his arms.

Little shakes, but still they were shakes.

Sansa was good at hiding herself most of the time when she wanted to.

_She hadn’t lied to me._

It meant a lot to Jaime that she hadn’t tried to. She’d been scared and that much was still obvious.

She’d been right to be afraid about what Father would think if he ever knew that Sansa did not follow the Seven like most of Westeros except the North. Father would not take the news well if Jaime ever breathed a word about it. The pride of House Lannister mattered a lot to Father, who liked things to be perfect and seen as perfect by others.

When Jaime had seen Lady Stark with Sansa on the edge of the godswood in Riverrun having a private chat, he guessed that mayhaps Sansa didn’t follow The Seven. He hadn’t known for sure, but either way, he had long decided that he didn’t care which gods Sansa prayed to. She was a kind person and that was all that really mattered.

Whichever gods she prayed to wouldn’t make her any less kind of a person.

He’d meant what he said; he would never tell his father about it.

Within his arms, he could feel her calm down but Jaime wasn’t sure whether Sansa was trying to be strong when he’d seen her very upset not long ago.

His mind turned to the day outside Riverrun that Sansa had explained to him about the way that her father mourned Lady Tully’s death in private but was a strong person the rest of the time. That same conversation had ended with Sansa comforting him while he mourned his own mother; something he had bottled up inside for two years.

“I remember something you told me once,” he began and felt her still in his arms, listening most likely. “‘You don’t have to be strong all the time’,” he quoted her own words back at her and felt her gasp softly. “You said that privacy was important, and no one is here, Sansa. Only us.”

She gripped the back of his doublet and her crying returned but quieter this time.

He wasn’t used to doing this for anyone other than Tyrion after Cersei had done something, but Sansa had done this for him when he really needed it on that high, rocky outcrop outside of Riverrun. This was not mourning a family member as Jaime had at the time, but Sansa needed somebody right now.

It was strange making sure she was alright like this. Last time when she’d been afraid of his father it was after arriving at Casterly Rock, her fear hadn’t been as big as this. It hardly compared to this, for it had been a short talk of reassurance and nothing like this.

He remembered what it was like being this upset and having someone there for him, telling him that there was nothing wrong with letting out his sadness in private. It had been something he’d been very thankful for; to not be left alone to handle it all by himself.

So, he stayed like this so she could have the same help she’d once given him.

Moving his hand to rest next to the other on her back, Jaime waited until she was getting calm again before he spoke.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” he told her, releasing her back and taking her hands in his. “You did not lie to me, and neither did I lie to you. He will never know, Sansa.”

The chamber was quiet with nought but their breathing as Sansa gave him a weak smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, her expression looking more relaxed than he’d seen of her since meeting Sansa Tully. “I’m sorry about your doublet.”

He looked at the moisture on his leather doublet and shook his head. “It’s nothing. All I need is a cloth to dry it off. One of those should be easy to find.” He reached up to Sansa and wiped a missed tear. “Better?”

Her Tully eyes were bright and no longer misted by the tears she’d been trying to hold back earlier. “Much, Jaime. I’m sorry for the way I behaved just now.”

Sitting the both of them on the end of the bed, Jaime let go of her hands now that she seemed alright. “It doesn’t matter, Sansa,” he told her and saw she was about to speak again. “I mean it,” Jaime said and continued. “I would rather be with the real Sansa, than the one you show to everyone else.”

Sansa looked down to her lap as though she was embarrassed by what had happened. “I didn’t mean to cry the way I did. Discussing the gods in private was the only thing I meant to do here,” she apologised again from where she sat beside him.

“Sansa,” he said, causing her to look up and make eye contact. “I said I don’t care who you pray to, but I know Father wouldn’t think the same way I do. You were right to worry, I know what he’s like about perfect things and people, but if he ever does find out it will never be from me.”

Jaime watched as Sansa took a breath and let it out, the tension leaving her body, and he was glad to see that his first true friend was calming down and still being herself. He rarely saw her properly during the convoy from Riverrun because someone else was always around.

Remembering the way that Aunt Genna had taught him how to hide the clues of tears, Jaime got up from the featherbed and searched the chamber for something that would work.

“What are you doing?”

Looking over his shoulder to Sansa, he saw that she was peering at the previous place he had looked. “Trying to find something that will calm your eyes. We don’t want the castle thinking someone hurt you.”

Sansa flushed and made a voiceless ‘oh’ before going over to the windows and opening them, letting the chill of the morning air into the chamber.

Jaime made a wry smile and watched as she stood in the path of the cold airflow, hints of wind making her copper hair rise and fall as the wind changed between a little and weak. “It’s freezing,” he complained and saw a quirk of a smile on her lips.

“I should be alright after a few minutes,” she told Jaime, who nodded and watched as she endured the biting wind so the red in her eyes would disappear. Not used to the cold of the Vale, Jaime shivered and Sansa noticed it. “I could meet you in the hall if you wish? This chamber is part of a tower and not the walls,” she offered, a rather tempting idea too.

“And you’ll be alright now?” he asked her, to which she nodded. “Good. I’ll be in the hall.”

Smiling from where she stood, Sansa looked at him with understanding. “Thank you for everything, Jaime.”

“Of course.”

Taking his leave and unbolting the door, Jaime left the chamber that was losing what warmth it had and closed the door behind him.

Leaning against the wall of the hall that led back down to the main portion of the castle, Jaime gazed at his hands and turned his wrists, fidgeting with his fingers before turning his attention to the closed door.

He’d comforted Tyrion before, he’d never needed to comfort Cersei, and he’d never been close enough with anyone else that he’d comforted them either.

Helping Sansa had been strange, but not something he’d been forced into doing. He chose to do it, and neither had he been annoyed by it as he imagined helping any other girl would have been. Some of the bannerman daughters he’d been forced to entertain at Casterly Rock hadn’t cried, but they had clung to him in a way that made him uncomfortable.

Sansa had held onto him closely while he had her in his arms, but it hadn’t bothered him like those other girls.

All he’d cared about was making sure Sansa had the help she needed to understand that everything would be alright.

_But that’s what good friends do, isn’t it? Look after each other?_


	38. Trouble in Paradise

 

SANSA STARK

_Day 26, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Inside her head, Sansa could remember what had happened between her and Jaime yesterday as though it occurred five minutes ago.

She’d never intended to tell him anything that would give away that she was different to her family. Such a thing was risky in the wrong hands, but Jaime didn’t care who she prayed to and had promised to never tell Lord Tywin about her and the old gods.

There was something that she knew about yesterday but did not understand.

Jaime had thanked her for telling him the truth of who she prayed to.

He didn’t care who it was, just that she had told him.

_Have I become so obvious to him that he knows when I am and am not telling him the truth?_

_I already knew that he can tell when I’m hiding from the world._

She’d taken too long to answer Jaime with a lie yesterday and had told him the truth about the gods, hoping that the honesty would outweigh the fact it was the old gods and not The Seven.

It frightened her that a part of her big secret was now known by another. It was small and insignificant, but part of the secret all the same. She’d been holding everything close to her chest for eight moons in hopes that no one would ever find out before she was ready, but alas yesterday was tell Jaime the truth of the old gods or never have his trust at all.

In her past life, the only trust between family and listening to her instincts about anyone else had proven to be wise. This time she was living with that same choice; family and instincts. However, yesterday had led to Sansa telling Jaime a small secret that was the tip of a large iceberg. She was betrothed to him, but not yet family.

In that chamber, Jaime had repeatedly promised that he wouldn’t tell his father, as well as saying he didn’t care who she prayed to.

There was something that she needed to do from here on if things were to go well between herself and Jaime.

_I will have to believe he was being genuine yesterday._

A strain between them, borne of Sansa not trusting that Jaime had told her the truth, would bare her no favours.

It was a hypocritical thought after all the lies she’d told, but, aye, she would need to believe he was being honest with his promise yesterday.

_The secret is now in his hands. All that can be done is give him no reason to give it away._

Finishing the needlepoint of a warm, full-length cloak for Elia, Sansa gazed at it and ran her fingers over the fur collar; it was reminiscent of the Northern designs she’d worn as a woman grown during a North winter. Looking up from it, she saw the others present in the sewing circle since dinner, each continuing their chosen garment.

Elia, warmly donned in a thick dress instead of the thin silks of Dorne, was working on the last portion of finery for her wedding dress. Her needlepoint was calm and cautious; the stitching and decorations neat from her efforts.

Catelyn, similarly dressed as they all were, was crafting gloves and had just finished one glove.

Lady Cassana was present and creating something she hadn’t told anyone what it was, but it was beginning to take shape. If Sansa had to guess, Lady Baratheon was making a wedding gift for Elia and would finish it in private to keep it a surprise.

Ashara was embroidering a doublet she’d been working on for a few days; the colour scheme of the needlepoint looked very Stark and Dayne to Sansa. The leather dyed purple and her threads were grey and white, not cloth-of-silver.

But Lady Rowena was not present tonight and neither had she been for dinner. A kind woman who’d shared a few techniques with everyone by demonstrating it on a tunic she was making for Ser Elbert, her nephew soon to be wed.

Sansa was checking over her stitching needlessly and looked up when she heard the sound of a single thread snapping coming from the other side of the sewing circle. Putting away her needle and thread was Elia, who gently gathered her gown in her arms and rose to her feet.

“Sansa,” the princess said, drawing the attention of all of the ladies present. “If you’re finished, would you mind carrying my sewing basket?” she asked politely, part turning towards it. “My hands are a little full.”

“Of course,” Sansa agreed, seeing the dilemma. Folding the cloak over one arm and lifting her own basket with that same arm, Sansa nodded and picked Elia’s basket up with her spare hand and followed her out of the chamber where they’d been doing needlepoint.

Imagining that Elia didn’t want anyone to, or Ser Elbert especially, to see the maiden gown for the wedding, Sansa took the lead and turned the corners before Elia to make sure the way was clear. Sansa may not have spent a great deal of time with Elia since arriving, but she’d made an effort to know where the bedchambers of her friends and family were.

The layout of the Gates of the Moon was not foreign to her.

Opening the door to Elia’s bedchamber, Sansa stood back and gave way to her before entering the chamber herself and closing the door as the Dornish princess was putting away the gown. While Elia was busy, Sansa placed Elia’s, as well as her own, basket on the desk before going over to the featherbed and laying the cloak there for Elia to try on.

When the princess turned around she saw the cloak and approached it, lifting it up and feeling the fur along the collar and top of the shoulders. “What’s this?”

Smiling to her, Sansa gestured for her to try it on and watched as she slid it on over her warm dress. “I thought it would be helpful when you and the Arryns go up to the Eyrie after winter,” Sansa explained and saw the way that Elia was confused. “Down here at the Gates of the Moon it’s easier to keep warm than the Eyrie.”

“The altitude,” Elia spoke in understanding. “I remember Ser Brynden explaining before I accepted, that the winds steal much of the heat easily up there. It’s why House Arryn doesn’t live in the Eyrie but here for winter.” She did the buttons from the neck to her stomach and took a few steps wearing the cloak. “It’s lovely, Sansa,” she complimented, running her fingers along the fur on the high button up neckline. “You made this to keep me warm in the Eyrie?” she asked with a grateful smile.

“I did. I thought a cloak would be more useful for that sort of thing instead of a dress,” she replied, glad that her labour had paid off.

 Elia walked over to Sansa and knelt down so their eyes were level. “It will be very useful, Sansa. Very warm,” Elia replied and sat on a chair to be a bit more comfortable. “How have you been, Sansa? I haven’t had the chance to talk with you properly since the wheelhouse. Acting like the true friends we are would bring you under scrutiny, Sansa; a girl of eleven and a woman grown of twenty typically don’t have much, if anything, in common. We and Oberyn have our secret about Needle.”

The sudden change in topic, and from cheerful to serious took Sansa by surprise but she replied with a clear mind. “Yes, but no one can know about my special needle.”

Elia leaned forward and tucked a loose hair behind Sansa’s ear. “No,” she agreed, looking a little sad. “We can only be close friends when we’re in private. It’s common knowledge that Oberyn was exiled to Essos.”

“And I appeared when he returned,” Sansa added, aware of the connection one could make if she acted more than good acquaintances with the Martells.

“Yes,” Elia said softly. “You did, Sansa, but that part is not well known. Friendly interaction is no danger to your truth, but anything more would make the other Great Houses speculate why we’re good friends.”

Sansa’s truth of not being a born Tully of Westeros was something she’d been protecting since Mother and Father accepted her into the family. The story that Mother and Father circulated in Westeros six moons ago was old enough for people to believe as fact, but it was not yet old enough to be considered absolute fact.

As such, her story as a Tully raised in Harrenhal was still vulnerable to being questioned if someone became curious enough. Her lie to Westeros told the people that she’d been an ill child in Harrenhal until the age of ten, and crossed paths with Oberyn the year he returned from Essos during her journey to Riverrun and her family.

She could associate with the Martells somewhat, but openly displaying friendship the strength of what existed between the Dornish royalty and Ashara would raise questions.

The fact Sansa had become known by Westeros around the same time Oberyn returned to from Essos was a weak point in her story.

And Elia sharing a strong bond with a child would only bring to mind the close timing of Oberyn and Sansa both becoming part of Westeros.

It would not be impossible for people to think that mayhaps there was something missing from Sansa’s official story.

Sansa gave Elia a thankful smile. “I appreciate how much you and Oberyn are helping me, but does Ashara know about me?”

“Ashara?” Elia repeated in confusion. “Not I, Sansa. What makes you ask?”

“Yesterday morning before breaking of fast, Ashara reminded me how the other Great Houses would find it strange if I acted as friendly to you as I had in the wheelhouse,” Sansa informed Elia and saw the way she nodded. “It made me wonder if she knew the truth, but she never spoke the details that you and Oberyn know. I wasn’t sure,” she explained to the princess, hoping not to have offended her with the answer.

Elia shook her head and Sansa released a breath she hadn’t known she held. While Ashara had made no references to Braavos yesterday, Sansa hadn’t taken the conversation at face value and assumed that there was a chance she knew Sansa’s true origins in this life. The princess leaned forward in her seat took one of Sansa’s hands. “Like I said to you in Lannisport, it breaks my heart to see someone so young prepared for the worst,” Elia said, a trace of sadness in her eyes that faded when she smiled. “Oberyn and I will never be loose-lipped about your truth, Sansa,” she told Sansa, leading the way to the door of the chamber.

When they were out in the halls, Sansa glanced over her shoulder in confusion. “Do you not wish to try on your gown?” she asked, wondering what the final product looked like. While knowing the general shape of it, Sansa had not seen its finer details. Elia had completed them herself.

The princess turned to her as they walked the halls in the direction of the main guest wing of the Gates of the Moon, which was on the opposite side of the castle. “Not today, Sansa, but next sennight,” Elia answered with a smile donning her face. “As was announced at dinner, the wedding is a sennight hence. Most of the bannerman houses are present and my mother IS arriving on the morrow.”

“Is Princess Mariah happy for you with this match, Elia?” Sansa asked, curious about Princess Mariah’s nature.

Elia glanced at Sansa as they were nearing the bedchambers where the wards of Lord Arryn were said to reside. “She’s arriving tomorrow, and then I’ll know, but I don’t think Mother had a marriage to the Arryns in mind; the Targaryens more likely since Prince Rhaegar has no sister to marry,” Elia said while they strolled slowly through the castle. “But she did say she entrusted me to make a wise choice at the tourney, and I have yet to feel regrets.”

Walking towards them swiftly, Sansa looked forward at the sound of hasty boots and saw Stannis Baratheon looking stern and embarrassed. “My lord, is everything well?” spoke Sansa, watching the boy’s reaction of alarm.

“I highly suggest you don’t continue this way for a while, Princess Elia, my lady,” Stannis said seriously without giving them as a reason as to why. “If I may take my leave, My Princess?” he asked politely, looking to Elia while Sansa was watching him and picking up on the concern he was trying to hide.

Elia nodded with her always gentle smile. “Of course.”

Sansa spoke before the second Baratheon could leave. Stannis making a hasty retreat from the bedchambers hall of the wards suggested a few scenarios, but few included Stannis Baratheon saying and doing what he’d done just now. “My lord,” she said kindly. “I’ve seen and known what your brother is like. Personally, I think Lord and Lady Baratheon are prouder of you than him if they’re aware of what he’s become.”

“I am but the second son, and your sweet words don’t make that less true, my lady,” Stannis replied, his hard exterior not shifting. “They do not know.”

Sansa could see he’d brushed off the message she was trying to get across. “Mayhaps, however, knowing yourself that you’re the better man is something to acknowledge.”

He bowed to each of them and left with a quick gait.

Elia didn’t seem to understand what Sansa and Stannis had just spoken about, and Sansa could see the unasked question. “Stannis is a better Baratheon than Robert. He has shown insecurities as the second son, but he won’t let it get in his way of doing his duty to his family,” she explained so Elia had context concerning Sansa’s talk to Stannis. “He’s stern, humourless, but a boy of good intentions,” Sansa described, using her knowledge of him as boy and man.

“And his brother?” Elia asked, not seeming to know a great deal about the Baratheon sons.

Sansa used reflections to see if anyone was near, but they were alone except for the obnoxious laughter further ahead. “Robert Baratheon is a boy I would hate to be betrothed to,” Sansa confided in Elia during a loud male burst of laughter.

“Is he truly that awful?”

Sansa sighed and looked up at Elia while they walked. “At the tourney and at Riverrrun, the most frequent topic I overheard him speak of was bedding girls. On our journey here, he was more than friendly with the tavern maids,” she told the princess. “I would not want him as my husband, Elia,” she honestly said. Sansa could remember the way King Robert was openly unfaithful to his wife Cersei and known as the whoremonger king.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, for she had looked ahead of them towards the end. “And he never will be,” Elia said, removing her hand from Sansa’s shoulder. “Your husband will be Jaime Lannister, and soon I will be Elia Arryn. Good matches for both of us it seems.”

Abandoning her thoughts about the Baratheons, Sansa turned her head to Elia and could see that Elia was truly happy about her impending marriage. “You never told me what Ser Elbert is like other than a good man,” she prodded, hoping to learn something about the Arryn heir.

Elia smiled to Sansa and looked ahead of them as they neared the wards’ wing. “I admit he was hesitant when Lord Arryn proposed the betrothal and I accepted. But like his uncle, Elbert was an honourable man and did not treat me with scorn before learning more about me,” Elia said, seeming to be thinking about recent events. “When the Vale failed to best me, he seemed to relax and, as you know, invited me to walk with him often.”

It was a harsh thing for a woman to have to experience, but Sansa was glad that Elia’s health prevailed against the chill of the Vale. And with it, Ser Elbert became more receptive about the marriage his uncle had arranged.

“What was he like at the tourney?” Sansa asked, wondering what Ser Elbert had been like other than asking for Elia’s favour for good luck.

The Dornish Princess was calm and glanced out the windows unseeingly. “He was polite and courteous, made an effort to get to know me. Now that I think about it, he became a little distant a few days before leaving Riverrun for here; but never rude. Mayhaps journeying to his colder home made him believe I would fall ill, but I always dressed warmly.”

“And when you didn’t turn ill, he was normal again?” Sansa guessed and saw Elia nod her head.

“Yes. Bracing himself for the worst, I suspect, but not anymore,” Elia divulged but had a small smile. “I was weak as a babe and child, but as a woman grown the reputation lingers. I’m not the strongest of women, but I know I can defeat a chill such as the Vale with the clothing of its people,” she told Sansa. “If this were the North, its weather would be too much for me, I fear. However, the Vale, with proper clothing, has yet to make me ill.”

It was relieving to Sansa to hear that Elia would be alright here in the Vale. During their travel within the convoy, it had been a silent fear of Sansa’s that the weather would be a danger to Elia, but there hadn’t been a time that Elia attempted to don herself in Dornish silks instead of the attire more appropriate for the Vale and the North.

Mayhaps Elia had taken the information and advice Uncle Brynden provided during the tourney to heart.

Sansa remembered her return towards the North when Littlefinger had taken her from King’s Landing to the Vale after King Joffrey was poisoned by the Tyrells at Margaery’s wedding feast. The return towards colder climates had been a surprise to her skin after becoming accustomed to the temperate weather of King’s Landing. Silk and satin were abandoned in favour of layered cotton dresses and wool cloaks.

Eventually, just as she had grown used to the southern environment, Sansa adjusted to the coolness similar to that of her homeland in the North.

She looked at Elia before she spoke. “It gladdens me to hear such words about your health, Elia.”

Elia gave her a little nod of thanks as they neared a conversation between two boys; Sansa took the precaution of taking a small sidestep to put space between herself and Elia.

“-she spoke to your father yesterday morning? Wager that made him happy. Now you have to make the eight before you marry the girl. You’re not a real man until you make the eight.”

Sansa heard the sound Eddard sighing and a few footsteps. “I’m not making the eight, Robert,” Eddard denied him. “I have listened to you talk about this ‘Making the Eight’ tonight and I’m not interested.”

“Come on, Ned. Fuck one girl in each of the seven kingdoms and the Riverlands; what’s not to like?” Robert persisted from where they were conversing inside a chamber, the door ajar. “You know I’ve started; three so far.

She now understood why Stannis Baratheon had advised them against coming this way. Unsure whether to take another direction or listen, she looked to Elia is see what the princess wanted to do, but Robert spoke again.

“I wouldn’t have minded making the eight with Lannister’s Tully if she wasn’t betrothed and had bloomed tits like a woman grown.”

“That’s enough, Robert,” Eddard told the older boy, voice low and tense.

Sansa was stock still where she stood and felt Elia rest a hand on her shoulder; a gentle squeeze. “Come, Sansa,” Elia murmured quietly. “You don’t have to listen to this.”

A door slammed against stone.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY!?” the voice of Jaime roared, reaching Sansa’s ears clearly from where she stood. “Ned,” Jaime said testily. “Punch him.”

 There was a scoff from within the chamber. “Too afraid to do it yourself, kid?”

“Baratheon, I am not my sister, but I will not let you get away with this!” Jaime avowed with absolute seriousness. “Me the day I leave or Ned right now because he’s no guest, you’re getting a black eye for that.”

“Hahaha, listen to him. Riled up by a bit of talk,” Robert spoke as though he’d just heard the funniest jape.

“Robert,” Eddard said tightly. “Shut up.”

There was silence within the bedchamber.

“What?” Robert questioned sounding stunned by what had been said. “Ned? You’re taking his side? You hardly know him.”

“I’ve held my tongue about many things, Robert, but ‘Making the Eight’ has gone too far; especially talking about ladies.”

“So, going to punch me, are you?”

There was no answer because it sounded as though two men grown barged into the chamber. “Eddard, Jaime,” Lord Steffon said tensely. “If you would leave this chamber?” The command disguised as a request was followed by footsteps of boys.

“Bloody Stannis…”

“Robert Baratheon!” Lord Steffon said furiously, but the bedchamber door closed before Sansa could hear more.

Although the door was closed, it became apparent one of the men were out in the hall with the boys. “Did you have any intention to punch Robert, son?” Sansa heard Lord Rickard ask.

“I don’t know, Father. I did not strike him, but I wanted him to stop,” Eddard replied, and there was the reaction of a boy storming off in anger. “Jaime, wait!”

“Leave him be, son,” said Rickard solemnly. “He has every right to his fury. But there is something I want to ask you once more, Eddard,” The Warden of the North spoke in seriousness. “I heard everything since Jaime Lannister’s rage and a little before it. I want to know why you tolerated Robert’s behaviour until now.”

There was a shuffling of hesitant feet before there was an answer. “If he doesn’t listen to Lord Jon most of the time, why would he listen to me?”

A man sighed. “You’d be surprised, Eddard,” Rickard commented. “Ned, you can choose whether to be Robert’s friend or not. If he knows what you don’t like, he wouldn’t do it if he considers you a friend. Sitting through his talk about ‘Making the Eight’ doesn’t tell him you don’t like it, but when you spoke up and made it clear you didn’t like what he was doing, he has to choose. You, or what he was saying.” The North warden explained to his son.

“I understand, Father,” Eddard spoke almost too quiet for Sansa to hear, but cleared his throat. “What do I do about Jaime?”

“Go to him. He will be mad and shout at you, but let him calm down first. Explain you didn’t choose Robert’s side and don’t agree with the way he was talking about Lady Sansa,” Rickard advised his son and there was a ruffle of clothing for a moment. “I will be checking for any upset ladies nearby.”

Sansa looked at Elia and gestured for her to go; the princess gave Sansa’s shoulder a squeeze and left without a word.

“Why, Father?”

Rickard sighed. “I saw Lady Sansa and Princess Elia traversing the halls in the area. There’s a likely chance they heard some of this.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And Eddard?”

“Father?”

“Robert Baratheon guessed correctly; it was his brother that told us. I would be making a major mistake had I not witnessed today.”

“A mistake, Father?” Eddard echoed, confusion clear in his voice. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter now, son. I know what I need to know, but do not bully Stannis for what he did; you’ve always been better than to do such things. Seek out Jaime Lannister before he assumes you approve of Robert’s words,” Rickard instructed. “I do not want Lady Ashara to believe that House Stark is uncouth when she hears of this.”

Alone and in the hall, Sansa listened to the retreating sound of Eddard’s steps while she gazed out the wind to the mountains of the Vale. Being crudely spoken of was not a new matter to Sansa, she’d ironically been exposed to such treatment by the Lannisters in King’s Landing. The initial hearing of them now had caught her by surprise, but she wasn’t overly upset about it.

Here in this very same castle, Sansa once had been subjected to similar talk while living as Alayne with Petyr Baelish. She’d been expecting the crass words while living as the bastard of Littlefinger, but as the trueborn daughter of Hoster Tully, she had not.

She could remember those days dimly considering how much had happened after leaving the Vale; her eventual return to the North and Winterfell. The rumours of Aegon Targaryen landing at Griffin’s Roost with a force including elephants, but said to be an imposter of a long-dead toddler. Daenerys mobilising her forces and sailing from Mereen.

Sansa remembered the lessons she had learnt in the Vale, but the day-to-day details weren’t noteworthy in comparison to all of that.

Waiting to be found, Sansa remained at that window and watched as Elia and Ser Elbert were walking the courtyard together with their arms linked whilst they talked; a smile bringing out Elia’s inner beauty.

The sight below was a reminder of Sansa of her young fantasies of beautiful maidens and noble knights.

_Mayhaps here and protected in the Vale, Elia can have a peaceful life._

The thought was fleeting because Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to hold onto hope about such things after all she’d seen and experienced. Taking a breath, she brushed her fingers against the bracelet from Elia and silently wished that the impact of her presence during this time would mean the princess would be spared her past fate.

In reflection, Sansa realised that the gathering of houses and this wedding had been caused by her introducing the Martells to the Arryns at the Tourney of Lannisport. If it hadn’t been for her, it was rather likely that the old events she knew would have run their course.

Including Elia’s marriage to an unfaithful prince.

_I’ve spared her that at least. House Arryn hold honour in high regard, and Oberyn would exact revenge for his sister if Ser Elbert ever strayed._

But the marriage wasn’t the only impact she had had in Westeros. The most apparent occurring today was that Eddard would become part of Dayne house. Lord Rickard’s witnessing of today told the man something and changed his mind. Jaime was becoming his own person with each passing day amongst the other sons of Great Houses. Lord Steffon clearly now aware of what his heir had become, and was intent on improving the behaviour of Robert.

Down in the moonlit courtyard, Elia and Ser Elbert had come to a stop near a place to sit, which Elbert Arryn wiped clear of snow so Elia could sit down. Elia accepted the seat and Ser Elbert sat down beside her, lifting Elia’s hand to his lips, Elia smiling sweetly; happy.

It was disrespectful to remain by the window during what was clearly a private moment between two soon-to-be-wed adults. Turning away, Sansa wandered off in the direction of the guest wing but didn’t get far.

“Lady Sansa,” called the voice of Rickard Stark.

Turning where she stood, Sansa curtsied and met his eyes with confidence. “My lord, I pray your evening has been well,” she wished him, despite that it had been less than desirable for Lord Stark.

“Are you well, Lady Sansa?” Lord Stark spoke politely, walking alongside her and watching her with curiosity.

Aware that he was intent on resolving any problems that would normally arise when a highborn girl is insulted, Sansa spared him needing to gently address the matter and went straight to the point. “I am well, Lord Stark. Yes, I heard what was said about me, but I have come to understand that Robert Baratheon is not as well-mannered as the other heirs and sons present. Disrespect is a part of him, I understand.”

Lord Stark stared at her in surprise and recomposed himself from the blunt approach Sansa had used. “There is a difference between understanding and deserving, Lady Sansa,” he disputed seriously. “Similar to your sister, you are a daughter that honours her house with decorum and duty. Both of you are a credit to House Tully, and neither of you deserves such shameful behaviour towards you.”

Proceeding to continue their walk, Sansa looked at her hands and looked up again. “I thank you for your kind words, Lord Stark, and concerning this evening your greater priority would be placating Jaime Lannister, not I.”

Lord Stark made a low hum and looked to Sansa one last time. “I can understand why my wife found you to be such an interesting person, Lady Sansa. After the wedding, I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Sansa inclined her head and watched as Lord Stark left the hall in the direction of Jaime’s bedchamber, no doubt seeking him out.

 

 


	39. Brought Together

BRYNDEN TULLY

_Day 27, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Ever since their arrival to The Gates of the Moon it had been blatantly clear to someone with Brynden’s sharp eye that something was afoot.

At the tourney there was distance and only brief public conversations between any two of Lords Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, and Steffon Baratheon. Nothing to give an outsider any hint of what Brynden deliberately overheard, or saw from a distance during his stay at The Gates of the Moon.

Although Lord Tywin was now absent from these conversations between lord paramounts, Lord Rickard Stark appeared to be involved in whatever it was these lords were planning.

If anyone thought Brynden had missed the occurrences of closed-door conversations in his very home at Riverrun between Lords Jon, Steffon, and his own brother, Hoster, they would be quite mistaken.

The breaking of fast had been a normal affair where all Great Houses present and House Dayne gathered for the beginning of the day, before parting ways to go about their business. His nieces mingling with Lady Dayne. Prince Obeyrn and Sir Elbert having a friendly spar in the barracks last Brynden had heard at the table.

Contemplating what five different kingdoms wanted to achieve, Brynden’s attention was focussed on his thoughts until he heard the sound of feet approaching him. Looking up to see who it was, he was greeted with the sight of Steffon Baratheon heading straight for him.

“-in writing consented to this sennights ago. He predicted it and prepared himself.”

“If you’re sure, Steffon,” Rickard replied, which Steffon nodded. “I’ll see you inside,” the Warden of the North spoke before turning back to where he had come from.

Looking at Steffon Baratheon, who’s heir had so crudely spoken about Brynden’s niece only yesterday, Brynden remained standing where he was, consequently making Lord Steffon walk the entire distance to him.

Despite the apologies that’d been given to both Brynden and Sansa yesterday, the elder Tully was not going to be as diplomatic as his niece about the incident or forgive the transgression anytime soon.

It was strange to Brynden that Sansa had been forgiving to Lord Steffon. She mayhaps had felt obliged to, but the manner of her behaviour after Lord Steffon had left the chamber indicated that Robert Baratheon’s conversation of ‘making the eight’ didn’t bother her as it would have effected Catelyn or Lysa.

_Mayhaps her upbringing in Braavos had hardened her against such things. She is a child, her girlhood nearing its end, but too mature for comfort._

_But still a child she is; no one could forget how heartbroken Minisa’s death made Sansa, who she’d only known for a brief time. The way she had run through the halls that day…_

While that had been the most vulnerable moment he’d seen of his adopted niece, it needed to be said that the child’s otherwise internal strength was becoming apparent compared to Lysa and Cat.

_Catelyn and Lysa have not had the same exposure to the world’s cruelty as Sansa in Essos. Mayhaps that is the reason why, however, she needs to understand her maturity will raise eyebrows if it continues further._

He will have to talk to Sansa about that later.

Watching as Lord Steffon reached him, Brynden gave only a simple and strained greeting. “Steffon Baratheon.” His lack of title had been a deliberate slip.

The lord paramount sighed and showed no response other than giving Brynden a proper greeting. “Good morrow, Ser Brynden,” he said with dignity but simultaneously humble. Clearly, yesterday’s insult to Brynden’s family was acknowledged but didn’t stop the lord from acting like a lord. “Would you join the other lords and I before more guests arrive?” the lord paramount requested, half turning towards the hall from which he’d come.

To be frank, it was tempting to Brynden to be a pain in Steffon’s arse, however, Brynden was no fool and currently representing House Tully here in the Vale. Now was not the time for petty behaviour in response to yesterday’s slight towards his newest niece. Falling into step beside Lord Steffon, Brynden broke the silence. “I’m no lord paramount,” he pointed out. “Nor am I a damn fool, my lord.”

There was no immediate reply while they walked the halls, but upon entering a chamber where Lord Jon and Lord Rickard were quietly conversing with grim expressions he received an answer. “None of us takes you to be a fool, Ser Brynden,” Lord Steffon finally spoke upon closing the door and joining the other two.

“What am I doing here?” he questioned, but Lord Jon merely gestured to the last seat at the table for Brynden to take.

Brynden approached the remaining seat with reluctance but stayed standing, resting his arms upon the back of it. “So how do I come into all of this? Something is brewing, that much was clear sennights ago.”

Lord Rickard glanced to the other two in thought and looked to Brynden seriously, but not in a way that set off any instincts. “Ser Brynden, you know Lord Hoster better than most. And without Lady Minisa to manage the Riverlands as Lady Tully, Hoster needs someone he can trust to represent him at gatherings like this; and we don’t mean the wedding.”

Looking to each of the lord paramounts in turn, Brynden nearly scoffed.

_Hoster needs to make demands of me. Again._

Remembering the sight of the retinues at the tourney grounds that made the Tully retinue appear weak effectively silenced his train of thought. Hadn’t he been so bull-headed and Hoster making demands of marriage immediately after the War of the Ninepenny Kings, the Riverlands could have had a force to be reckoned with at the moment.

_Not a mere ten thousand men._

Keeping that in mind, he decided to needle them for details. “And what of Lord Tywin’s say about this? He’s not here to object, is he now?”

Lord Rickard glanced to the others in surprise while the Baratheon lord passed a letter with a red wax sigil of the Lannister lion at the bottom. “Despite the happenings at the tourney, Ser Brynden, Tywin is no fool. He groomed his brother to be the regent lord of the Westerlands in his absence as Hand of the King, but didn’t imagine you’d be as cooperative for Hoster,” Lord Steffon was explaining patiently. “Leaving only one alternative for your brother; to request you take Hoster’s place as a proxy.”

Reading the legitimate-looking letter of consent by Tywin Lannister, Brynden weighed his options but knew he needed to do this for the sake of his home; it was in a vulnerable position geographically and militarily.

And alliances always have a reason for being formed.

“Why are you forming an alliance? On what grounds?” he dug, watching for clues of deception, and finally taking the seat.

Lord Jon met Brynden’s eyes. “Aegon V Targaryen was putting together reforms that diminished a lord paramount’s control of their kingdom. All well and good for the smallfolk, but dangerous towards a kingdom’s stability,” he began. “There wasn’t an alliance like this at the time, but it showed me a sample of what could happen had the reforms remained. My father was lord when the reforms happened, but at the end of the Ninepenny Kings I spoke to Steffon, Rickard, Hoster, and later Tywin; all lord paramounts of their lands.”

Rickard Stark nodded, catching Brynden’s attention before the Stark spoke. “As Warden of the North, I knew how important stability and cooperation was, especially in winter. I was only a boy when those reforms were made during my father’s wardenship; all of us were boys except Jon. Jon approached me after the war and pointed out what could happen to the North if the reforms were created again, and the North cannot afford for them to or risk starvation; so I agreed to ally with the Vale.”

“He and Rickard brought up the topic and I couldn’t fault the logic,” Steffon said grimly. “Tywin was present, as was Hoster, and understood that the pressure of five united kingdoms could prevent reforms or similar,” he shared with Brynden. “Five lord paramounts would be able, without any war, to exert political pressure to oppose and prevent decrees that worked against us. So we agreed to the alliance as a contingency plan if things went in that direction again.”

“But the news Tywin shared to Steffon and I at the tourney was rather troublesome,” Jon commented while Steffon sat back. “I pray the Gods are good and never make action necessary, however, the Targaryen insanity is beginning to show according to Tywin. At the moment, the king is starving men to death in the Black Cells for the smallest crimes; giving those sentences only in the presence of Tywin and the Kingsguard, not in front of the royal court. A warning that the madness has begun its climb.”

Brynden shook his head and Jon nodded but didn’t bombard him with any further details.

The concern of one man had evolved into five men, just as a plan in case the reigning king tried to decree something that could be potentially damaging for the kingdoms. A secret weapon put aside just in case it was made necessary.

And now King Aerys II was beginning to show Targaryen madness, giving these five lord paramounts reason to start cementing the alliance.

_I will do this, Hoster. House Tully and the Riverlands need this._

Picking up the goblet of water, Brynden took a draught and looked to the men in turn seriously. “I will be Hoster’s proxy,” he told them with no tone of doubt.

Rickard Stark rose and walked over to Brynden before extending his hand. “You’ll have as much contribution as Hoster, Ser Brynden; regardless of whether he is in attendance. And we don’t use titles during these talks; call me Rickard.”

Rising to his feet, Brynden took the offered hand firmly. “Brynden is fine, Rickard.” Turning to face the other two men, Brynden nodded to each of them who did the same back, Lord Steffon a fraction unsure. “We have important matters to discuss no doubt, Steffon.”

“We do,...Brynden,” Steffon replied, the hesitation vaporising after a moment. “What is your opinion on the ruling princess of Dorne? Mariah Martell?”

Placing his hands on the table and looking at them, Brynden weighed the situation and shared his thoughts. “Frankly, I don’t know her. Whether she goes running to the king about our alliance at the first opportunity is unknown. There’s much risk and she has no current connection to either of us and the wedding won’t change that. The woman’s brother is in the Kingsguard, but whether it’s for the prestige of the position or loyalty to House Targaryen is unknown to us.”

Brynden paused for a moment and looked up when he felt sure about his decision. “Keep her out of this. For now, our forces outnumber the Tyrells and the Crown; the Martell’s would be bound to the Arryns by marriage. No need to tell her unless war breaks out.”

Rickard and Steffon were nodding from where they sat while Jon was thinking and eventually nodded. “We were of a similar conclusion,” Jon quietly divulged.

Jon rose from his seat and all followed suit while Jon was pushing in his chair. “We’ll be greeting Princess Mariah soon. Until she is returning to Dorne we’ll have no further alliance discussions. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Steffon said, Brynden and Rickard nodding in agreement.

Lord Jon was the first of them to leave the room after speaking a quick ‘thank you’ to Brynden. Shortly after Baratheon was gone as well while Rickard and Brynden were walking at a slower pace. “How is your niece since yesterday? Lady Sansa?” Rickard questioned as they wandered the halls towards the guest wing. “She seemed unaffected by Robert Baratheon’s words.”

Taken by surprise, but not startled from the topic of choice, Brynden realised this was a chance to make Sansa appear more like the child she should be. “She is a strong girl Sansa, but I heard her crying in her chambers after dinner yesterday,” Brynden lied smoothly, for such a thing never happened. “Sansa tends to overcompensate for her years in Harrenhal; trying to make her family proud. A brave front, but inside she’s like Catelyn and Lysa.”

Rickard Stark hummed, looking ahead and down the hall. “When I encountered her shortly after the incident of Steffon’s son, she was oddly collected and calm for a child.”

“She can be sometimes,” Brynden commented offhandedly. “But it’s later on that the calm is gone.” They walked a little further before reaching the threshold to Catelyn’s chambers, where Cat and Sansa were inside. “Minisa was the only one to see Sansa act her age without being upset from something.”

“May Lady Minisa rest in peace,” the Northman spoke respectfully and backing up a step towards the halls.

Giving a nod to Rickard, Brynden witnessed him leaving to locate his sons for the impending arrival of Princess Mariah. Catelyn approaching her uncle with Sansa a step after her.

Cat gave her uncle a hug while Sansa smiled from where she stood. Looking over Cat’s shoulder to Sansa, Brynden looked to his middle niece and gave her a look until she joined in. Brynden cared for his nieces and nephews, the latter and Lysa currently at Riverrun, but he knew that Sansa needed to behave her age so he wasn’t going to settle for smiles and such anymore.

Catelyn was the first to step away, and Sansa made to do the same, but Brynden’s arm holding her close stopped her. “Sansa, we’re not in Essos. You’re the daughter of my goodsister, your mother; a girl of eleven. That’s who you are.”

“Yes, Uncle. I understand.”

“You’re Sansa Tully, Niece. You are to us all.” Releasing his hold of Sansa’s back, Brynden looked to both of his elder nieces. “It’s good to see you dressed for the occasion. Come, we’re greeting the ruling princess of Dorne at the eastern gate.”

Catelyn was excited while Sansa had a curious look, both eager to meet the newest and one of the most important guests for this wedding.

_That’s better, Sansa._

Turning from his nieces, Brynden led the way while hearing the soft steps of the girls behind him as he went.

 

ELIA MARTELL

Warmly donned and standing next to the Arryns with Oberyn, Elia witnessed their mother’s arrival at the eastern gate. The guests of the wedding watching in two columns, one standing on either side of her mother’s path to the Arryns, Elia and her brother.

A little nervous but feeling Oberyn’s steady hand on her back, Elia took what comfort it offered her. She believed that Mother would not approve of the match after becoming hopeful and ambitious when Rhaella Targaryen failed to produce a sister for Rhaegar to marry.

It wasn’t an unreasonable hope for Mother to have, hence Elia’s nerves about what she would think of the Arryn wedding. Before leaving Sunspear for the tourney, Mother had handed her a marriage contract with the Martell seal and Mother’s signature. Elia had been entrusted to make a good judgement if an offer was made, but somewhere inside herself, she felt it was only meant for House Targaryen.

What Elia had seen of Rhaegar Targaryen at the tourney made her ill at ease at the thought, justifying the concept of accepting the Arryn marriage. Elbert was a better man than Rhaegar Targaryen.

Elia didn’t regret her choice, she could only hope Mother wouldn’t be too disappointed about it.

The ruling princess of Dorne, her mother, was graceful in her Dornish silks from the moment she passed through the gate. She was no doubt cold or a little chilled from the Vale’s cooler climate but didn’t let it show to those present for her arrival.

_She’ll likely need what I’ve made for her. Hopefully, she won’t be too disappointed with the Arryns. But if Mother is, she won’t let it show. I know that much._

But as Elia watched the motions of the greetings she wasn’t sure how Mother felt about the situation. She’d been polite to the Warden of the East, and his nephew. No slurs or bitter comments, Mother acted like the perfect guest towards them, but that mayhaps was what had Elia on edge.

“Elia,” Mother spoke with care, stepping forward to embrace her. “I’m glad to see you are well,” she murmured into Elia’s ear and letting her go. “Oberyn, no cause of trouble, I pray?” Mother asked her son, but turning towards Lord Jon towards the end.

“He’s been a pleasant guest, My Princess,” the warden replied warmly. “Would you come inside for bread and salt by the fire?”

“Of course, Lord Arryn. It would be a pleasure,” Mother accepted graciously, following the Arryns inside until they reached the Dining Hall, where servants presented bread, salt and wine for House Arryn and House Martell; the houses to join through Elia’s marriage to Elbert, the heir.

Accepting the goblet of wine, Elia turned her attention to Mother once all had eaten the customary bread. “How is Doran, Mother? Word has reached us that he has a daughter now,” she asked in curiosity. “Arianne.”

Mother nodded and nursed her goblet in her lap. “Indeed, Elia. Mellario brought their daughter into the world two moons ago. She’s recovering well and Doran dotes on their babe,” she confirmed before turning towards Oberyn. “And your wife misses you, Oberyn. She plans to name the babe Tyene. Locks of gold like her, but Tyene will have your features,” Mother told Oberyn calmly. “That’s what she insists the gods have blessed you with at least. Yet we shall see if she is correct in two moons, Oberyn.”

But Oberyn had no wife, or so anyone would assume of Elia’s younger brother. Since seeing him return from Essos, Elia had learnt that his nature was not one for settling down and living the conventional life. He enjoyed adventure, knowledge, and variety. Personally, Elia believed he will never get married. Sire bastards mayhaps, but never marriage before The Seven.

The only explanation would be the woman was certain Oberyn was the father and had journeyed to Sunspear for when the time came.

Glancing to her brother, Elia watched as he played along with Mother’s words. “She is a strong woman. I shall, of course, return to Dorne to see if her thoughts are true, but she will understand my need to be elsewhere some while after. I have matters to tend to that can wait some time.”

Elia was well aware of her brother’s protective nature towards her, but she would rather Oberyn spent time with his son or daughter before gallivanting off again. Most likely come back to the Vale to ensure that Elbert did not shame Elia after their marriage.

Dorne was more accepting of bastards than the other kingdoms, and a bastard was the most likely reason for Mother’s remark towards Oberyn. Elia had never seen Arianne or Oberyn around said babe, making her wonder how he would act around a babe with his own blood.

_Will he be part of their childhood? Provide every necessity to ensure they were happy?_

Oberyn was not of a cold heart but this new scenario for her brother to be involved in made her wonder what would happen. Elia did not doubt Oberyn had sired other bastards in his time in Essos, given the actions that resulted in his exile from Westeros in the first place three years ago. The odds of knowing where they were now are slim to none, but the mother of this one was at their home and waiting for the day her babe would enter the world.

Thinking about the time her brother had sent a letter from Gulltown, Elia knew the babe would already be a member of House Martell by now had it been conceived there. He’d spent an awful lot of time in Lannisport, according to his stories and with the mother allegedly gold of hair, it only made sense that Oberyn had impregnated a woman early on in that city. A city with much trade and a means for the mother to safely travel to Sunspear.

Putting Oberyn’s tangles and history aside, for now, Elia returned her thoughts to the present and contently listened to her mother conversing with Lord Jon and Elbert. No doubt silently measuring his worth for Elia to marry.

_Any objection is too late now. Lord Jon has already signed the contract Mother gave me before I departed Sunspear. I’ll be married to a man of honour in a matter of days._

On the occasion, Elia contributed to the conversation as she silently prayed that Mother will allow the wedding and everything before it to run smoothly. As swept up as she was in the happiness created by spending time with Elbert; Elia remembered that the pre-signed marriage contract Mother had given her was most likely intended for House Targaryen.

She knew she needed to prove to her mother that agreeing to marry Elbert Arryn was not a mistake.

And as much of the day passed, she witnessed Mother and the Arryns talk without tension or the underlying chance of a disagreement getting out of hand. A harmonic and desirable situation that continued during introductions between their mother to the present lord paramounts of the surrounding kingdoms, as well as the Valemen representing bannerman houses.

Before she knew it, the midday meal had been served and eaten in relative peace with flowing conversation and wine, for it had been decided that the men would hunt this evening for the wedding feast tomorrow now that Elia’s and Oberyn’s mother was here.

With her mother sitting beside her, Elia was curious about what her interest was in and followed her line of sight; The younger members of the Great Houses of Westeros. “What is it, Mother?”

“Curious about those heirs, my daughter,” Mother said without being loud. “Seems to have the look of a squabble about them.”

Taking in the scene for herself, Elia didn’t see anything new but tried to imagine herself just arriving today and looking at them from that perspective.

Seated at one end of the group were the Baratheon brothers across from one another while on the other was Jaime Lannister and Eddard Stark, in between the four boys was the other four. Sansa Tully next to Jaime Lannister, Catelyn Tully next to her and Robert Baratheon on the other side of Catelyn. Across the table was Benjen Stark besides Eddard, and next to him was Ashara Dayne seated next to Stannis Baratheon.

Jaime Lannister was shooting glares at Robert Baratheon; Eddard Stark was pretending to ignore the looks the Baratheon heir was sending him from the other side of the younger group. Catelyn Tully scowling at Robert Baratheon when he looked her way. An unimpressed Sansa refusing to look at Robert and instead engaged with Benjen Stark in conversation while Ashara Dayne spoke with Stannis Baratheon, who made no effort to talk to the others.

Realising what she was seeing, Elia glanced to her mother. “Robert Baratheon was less than polite about Sansa Tully. Eddard Stark was there when it happened and doesn’t agree with what was said. Jaime Lannister heard Robert’s words and barged into the chamber angered by them. Eddard’s stuck between friends; he was friends with Robert and Jaime before Robert was rude. Stannis Baratheon isn’t very social, but he’s decent towards ladies. Catelyn Tully cares about her sister and already dislikes Robert Baratheon. Ashara, Stannis, Catelyn and Benjen Stark weren’t involved.”

Raising an eyebrow in amusement, Mariah Martell shook her head slightly and gave a little chuckle. “Sounds like quite the drama between children. These Tullys are both betrothed, are they not? One to Stark and the other to Lannister, correct?”

“Indeed, Mother. Sansa to Jaime Lannister, and Catelyn the eldest is betrothed to Brandon Stark, who’s at Winterfell learning to be a lord according to Lord Stark.” After giving that explanation, Elia remembered the rude way Tywin Lannister had rejected Mother’s offer of betrothing Elia and Oberyn to the Lannister twins. “Mother,” Elia began carefully. “I pray you don’t begrudge Sansa for something she can’t control.”

Mother shook her head after swallowing a drink of wine. “No, Elia. To do so would shameful behaviour and embarrassment to the Martell name. I only wish Lord Tywin hadn’t been so disrespectful to our family three years ago. I was trying to find a good match for my children, but the rejection did not have to be so harsh. Especially his ludicrous counteroffer of a deformed babe for you, Elia; that was uncalled for; you deserve better than such treatment.”

Elia knew her mother was a woman of courtesy and respect, but also ambition. It had been a fear of Elia’s that Mother’s wounded pride by Tywin Lannister would blind her to matters that couldn’t be helped. To hear that her friend wouldn’t be criticised about her betrothal to Jaime Lannister was a relief to hear. Mayhaps the concern had been unfounded, but the concern was there nonetheless.

_Sansa is a good friend._

When the men intending to hunt gathered together, Elia caught sight of Elbert looking her way with a smile that reached his eyes. Returning the smile, she saw that Lord Jon, who’s back was to her, noticed Elbert’s drifted attention and called him out on it, which made the men laugh but embarrassed Elbert thoroughly.

Turning her eyes away, she smothered the smile that fought to emerge but managed to stop it. She didn’t want him to be any more embarrassed than he likely already was.

Soon after, the group of hunters left the Dining Hall. No doubt making to retrieve the weapons they would need for their venture. Elia heard Mother clear her throat, and the expression Elia saw made her blush feeling embarrassed herself about getting caught. It was just a smile.

The rest of the afternoon Elia and her mother socialised with Lady Baratheon and Lady Arryn, the latter still very under the weather after the past few days. When Lady Cassana mentioned that Lady Rowena had been fighting it for some time now upon entering said woman’s bedchambers, Mother had Elia out of the chamber with a polite excuse as soon as possible.

Elia decided against dinner tonight, as most brides did on the eve of their wedding, now that her own wedding was brought forward to tomorrow. Everything necessary was available, complete, in a respectful state and all of the guests that confirmed attendance were here at the Gates of the Moon.

Walking alongside her mother while leading the way to what were her chambers until the wedding tomorrow evening, Elia entered and braced herself for disagreement concerning the marriage.

But what she anticipated did not happen.

Instead, her mother came over from the window and embraced her to whisper into her ear. “Would you do me the honour of putting on your dress tonight? For me?”

Absolutely confused to the absence of something akin to a scolding for marrying Elbert Arryn, Elia pulled back and struggled to understand why it wasn’t happening. “Mother- I- I thought that you…”

“What is it, Elia?” Mother asked, looking at Elia’s expression carefully, trying to understand her daughter’s bafflement. Leading her over to the featherbed, Mother sat her down on the end and joined her there.

Taking a breath, Elia hesitated as she watched Mother wait for her to say something. “I don’t understand,” she said softly. Mother cupped a cheek and thumbed it, silently encouraging her to say what was on her mind. “I thought you were unhappy with me accepting Lord Arryn’s offer of his nephew…That you want me to marry into the Targaryens but didn’t say as much.”

Mother sighed and took Elia’s hands in her own. “Elia, every mother wants their daughter to be the next queen, but I’ve made my peace with the fact an offer has never been made by the Targaryens the past few years,” she told Elia, giving her hands a squeeze. “If there is anything I dislike about you marrying Elbert Arryn, there are but two things. Firstly, the climate is much colder than you’re used to, but,” Mother paused and gestured to Elia’s clothes. “it appears you have that factor in hand already. The other would be he is the nephew, not the son of a lord. If Lord Arryn ever has a son, Elbert will be pushed to the wayside and no longer the heir.”

Mother became grim. “And Elia, the wedding is tomorrow and I doubt I am entirely the reason why.”

_Lord Arryn will be grieving Lady Rowena soon._

Elia wasn’t stupid and Mother knew as much.

Mother rose to her feet and encouraged Elia to do the same. “Come. I truly wish to see you in your dress, Elia. Your needlework must have improved recently. It shows in your gowns.”

She knew that Mother might not be aware of Sansa giving her private lessons when they both had spare time, but saying such a thing would arouse suspicion or curiosity in Mother, and Sansa doesn’t need people speculating about what was the truth. The story feed to Westeros about Harrenhal was still young.

Elia will never be as good as Sansa because it simply wasn’t her forte; she didn’t have the patience and experience to produce what Sansa could.

Her wedding dress was an exception where she made herself take it slow and used the tips Sansa advised to create a certain feature. Her teacher had been very patient and attentive while making gloves with an ease that spoke of her truth in Essos.

Taking her dress out from where it was kept, Elia rested it on the featherbed before shedding her layers so she could change into it. Taking care not to risk a snag or tear, Elia slowly put it on and made sure to have it in place, because the lacings were on the back. “Mother? Could you do the back for me please?” she said softly, wondering why she felt the need to be quiet.

With deft hands, Mother swiftly tied it up before taking a step back and gazing at Elia. A smile donning her face, eyes bright with happiness. “It’s beautiful…You’re gorgeous, Elia. A Dornish hairstyle will work perfectly with this.”

The words touched her heart and Elia watched as Mother approached and turned her towards the vanity table and its looking glass.

_I made this with my own hands…and, I do feel beautiful._

Her smile and eyes were bright and happy, lighting up her face.

Mother placed a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Elbert won’t be able to take his eyes off you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

It was so freeing that her worries about Mother would not come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was MIA for 2 months, but I'm back.


	40. Morning of Elia's Wedding

SANSA STARK

_Day 28, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Stirring in her bed in response to light touching her closed eyes, Sansa blinked repeatedly until she could see properly. Sitting up in her featherbed, she wiped the dryness from the corners of her eyes and took a breath that she released with the slowness of fear and dread.

Today was the day. Weather looking beautiful through her window and quite suited for the day’s occasion.

But the pit of her stomach was refusing to allow Sansa to relax and smile for the wedding of her best friend like she should.

And who could blame her body for having such a feeling after the events she had grown to associate with weddings? After all, she’d seen and been subjected to her share of experiences many years ago.

Death of a person’s life, spirit, or both.

Her own spirit once would have died hadn’t she fought to keep it from flickering out completely.

Freeing herself from the linens and walking to the window in her shift, Sansa held her arms close to her body and wished that she had not possibly condemned Elia to death. She had meddled with what was history for Sansa and now Elia was about to marry the original heir of Lord Jon Arryn.

_By the gods I pray I haven't wronged you, Elia._

She blinked slowly once.

_I’ll never forgive myself should something happen._

Sighing, she turned away from the window and carefully retrieved her dress for the day. It was a deep Tully blue that brought out her eyes, modest jewels sat within her silver necklace. Her only fancy piece was the meaningful and symbolic bracelet Elia commissioned for Sansa in Lannisport. Sansa had no desire to outshine Elia’s hard-done handiwork on her wedding day and kept her gown elegant but modest.

Donning the mummer’s gown without assistance, and yes it was a mummer’s gown, she didn’t tarry and waste waiting for a servant to weave a braid Sansa could remember like the back of her hand.

With her hair flowing down freely like molten copper, and two small braids that sat near the crown of her head and connected at the back; she looked into the glass and saw a hint of who she had grown to be in her past life. As she grew older it was slowly becoming more visible to her eyes, but she doubted anyone would know what to look for unless it was Petyr Baelish; who was in Oldtown last she’d heard.

All maudlin thoughts aside, she was pretty without being overly so.

The bride was the one who was meant to shine the brightest on the day of their wedding, and Sansa would be damned if she ruined this for Elia.

Rising from her seat at her vanity table, Sansa left for the chamber that’d been prepared for the ladies present in the Gates of the Moon. Inside was a small table near the door bearing bowls of fruit, porridge and other light options for breaking of fast.

No men allowed inside.

When the arrangement was divulged to Sansa yesterday, it struck a chord in her memory because the Tyrell women had broken fast alone with Margaery Tyrell on the morning of her wedding. Instead, Sansa had eaten amongst the men and other noble ladies in the Queen’s Ballroom of the Red Keep.

As a result, she’d never witnessed what happens between the bride and their female family and close friends.

Inside the spacious chamber were only a few ladies considering how early it was, but those present was the bride herself speaking to Princess Mariah while Lady Ashara was sitting down and having a goblet of water or possibly juice. Not wanting to intervene matters between Elia and her mother, Sansa served herself a goblet of juice before sitting down beside Ashara, who greeted her kindly.

“Good morrow, Sansa,” she said quietly, making eye contact once Sansa was settled and took in Sansa’s appearance. “I appreciate that you dressed nicely but modestly in the way you have for our friend’s wedding; Princess Mariah will certainly think well of you for it.”

Nursing her goblet in her lap, Sansa smiled in response. “I truly wish Elia has a happy wedding today, Ashara. I’d be ashamed had I attempted to outshine Elia on her wedding day. It would be the height of selfishness to aim to take attention away from any bride. But especially Elia,” she replied before wetting her lips with another sip.

“Especially Elia,” Ashara echoed, taking a sip of her own. “She has an inner beauty that only shows when people are kind. Not many people are to her,” she murmured in reply quietly. “That’s an interesting bracelet,” the Lady of Starfall commented appreciatively.

Looking to the symbolic gold bracelet with four beads, Sansa smiled in memory of the way she had objected to the gift originally until Elia literally told Sansa to take it. The gold sun, the silver trout, the gold lion head, and the silver wolf head. It was a beautiful piece.

“A gift and a thank you,” Sansa shared with Ashara who was curiously gazing at the beads. Seeing a question on the lady’s lips, Sansa answered it. “The four houses that matter the most to me. Family, future family, and important friends.”

“Will you add any more to the bracelet?” Ashara asked politely, glancing towards the Martell women on the other side of the chamber. Sansa shook her head at the question. “Why so, Sansa?”

Looking to the bracelet she fiddled with each bead before looking back up to Ashara. “It was a gift from Elia. A thoughtful gift, and I want to keep it how I received it…It would have less meaning if I alter it.” Sansa replied with a smile and shortly after noticed how Ashara was looking at the wolf head bead. “Will you be coming to Winterfell after the wedding? If I heard rightly you’re betrothed to Eddard Stark now.”

“You’re right that I am betrothed, Sansa. However, I’ve neglected my duties as Lady of Starfall for too long since the tourney and need to return soon,” she explained, refilling her goblet. “Lord Stark has heard this from me and understands why I won’t be visiting Winterfell after this wedding soon. There are no plans at the moment, however, Ned mayhaps be visiting Starfall in the future. Three moons time mayhaps. I suggested it to Lord Stark and will have an answer before I part for Dorne.”

She was surprised that Ashara wasn’t coming to Winterfell, but completely sympathising with the need to ensure home was in order. “Of course, Ashara. I hope we see one another again after the wedding,” she replied and saw Ashara nod.

Finishing her goblet, Sansa rose from her seat a moment later to retrieve some fruit to nibble on. Turning around in the direction of her seat, she could only smile at the sight of a radiant Elia in her Dornish styled but warm wedding dress. “Good morrow, Sansa,” she greeted with a hint of nerves in her voice.

“Good morrow, Elia,” Sansa replied, taking in the princess’s overall appearance. Her smile was for all to see, but slightly nervous Elia still was. “You look amazing,” she shared with her older friend, whose smile grew a little wider at the words.

Leaning down, Elia gently kissed Sansa’s cheek. “That’s lovely of you to say, Sansa. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

It was tempting to correct Elia and remind the bride that she’d made the gown with her own two hands, but decided to let it go. What mattered more was making sure that Elia was alright. “How are you feeling?” She asked the anxious bride, the Dornishwoman donned in her gown, but hair yet to be prepared. “I want you to be happy, Elia. If there is anything I can do to make that happen, I will,” Sansa practically promised while her thoughts lingering from earlier stirred in her mind.

The princess of Dorne smiled in that soft way she always did when Sansa said something or been supportive towards her. Placing a hand on Sansa’s shoulder, Elia thumbed it and looked Sansa in the eyes with her gentle ones. “There is one thing you could do for me, Sansa,” Elia began, not looking away from Sansa. “It might be difficult and a little unfair for me to ask, but,” she paused and leaned in towards Sansa’s ear and brushed Sansa’s creased forehead with the other hand. “…I’m sure you can do it.”

“What is it, Elia?”

“Have fun,” she finished then pulled away with an amused smile.

For a second Sansa gaped at Elia, but was fast to shut her mouth. “That isn’t a difficult thing, Elia,” she replied quietly. “You’re a good friend and about to get married to a man who’s treated you well.”

_But I know first impressions can be deceiving. I am a slow learner, but I learn. I’m looking out for you._

Smile now gentle and warm instead of amusement, Elia squeezed Sansa’s shoulder once and released it. “Good, I want you to enjoy the day,” the bride spoke softly. Straightening up and looking towards her mother, Elia seemed in thought for a moment. “I do believe I haven’t introduced you to my mother,” she said a moment later. “Who seems quite eager to do my hair; mayhaps you could help her, Sansa?”

Glancing over to the ruling Princess Mariah of Dorne, Sansa noticed that Elia’s comment was quite accurate. To learn a Dornish styling would be interesting, but in her mind she felt that watching Ashara and Elia’s mother doing it instead would ensure it was done properly. “Wouldn’t Ashara be a better choice? She would know how to correctly do it,” Sansa suggested, thinking that a Dornishwoman would do the style of her land better than a Northwoman pretending to be a Riverlander.

Elia muffled a chuckle and looked in the direction of Ashara over Sansa’s shoulder. “I suspected you would say that, but I insist, Sansa. She and my mother assisted with everything else except the hair. I want you to help with my hair.”

“Elia, I’m not Dornish. I don’t know how,” she admitted, hoping that Elia would see her point.

The bride looked back to her with a fond expression. “That’s how I know you will be fine helping my mother, Sansa. You’re alike in some ways; both courtly and take care to do something perfectly,” Elia explained, leading the way to the vanity table within the chamber. “I have faith in you, Sansa.”

It would be clear to anyone by now that Elia was not about to change her mind, so Sansa ceased to object and instead appreciated the belief that Elia had in her. “I’ll do my best, Elia, but if I do something a little tight, please tell me.”

Watching her sit down and laugh lightly at the requested, Sansa felt her lips twitch as her cheek warmed for a moment. “Sansa,” Elia said, bringing her long hair to rest on her back. “I doubt I’ll need to.”

“If you insist...”

“I do.”

“A bit early to be making promises today, isn’t it?” Sansa threw in cheekily, nearly jumping out of her skin when Elia’s mother laughed next to her.

Mariah Martell, along with Elia, were genuinely laughing before Elia’s mother contained herself and pressing a kiss into Elia’s hair. “Gods, I understand why you’re fond of one so young, dear girl. She has the same wit and fire I see in Oberyn, but with a lady’s modesty.”

Using the looking glass, Elia looked back to Sansa with a quirked smile. “Mayhaps, Sansa, mayhaps,” she replied to the witty comment. Clearing her throat, she spoke again. “Mother, meet Sansa Tully; second daughter of Lord Hoster Tully and Lady Minisa Tully, she’s a good friend of both myself and Oberyn. And Sansa, meet Princess Mariah Martell; my mother and someone I have missed dearly the past few moons.”

Turning towards the ruling princess, Sansa dipped into a curtsy as she spoke. “It’s an honour to meet you, Princess Mariah. It’s been a true pleasure to meet and befriend the prince and princess.”

Rising out of the dip, Sansa was surprised to see that Princess Mariah was calm but respectful towards her; watching her behaviour without being overly critical like all other royalty she’d met now and before. Instead of snobbery or false respect, Princess Mariah picked up the closest of Sansa’s hands and cupped it in her own. “The feelings are mutual, Lady Sansa, and I am pleased to have met you. In private ‘Mariah’ will be fine. Today’s attention should be on my daughter, and speaking of whom…,” Mariah replied and turned to Elia, gathering all of the strands and resting them on Elia’s back. “We should begin sooner than later.”

Holding the same opinion about titles and today, Sansa returned the favour. “Call me Sansa, Mariah. How do I help with her hair? I have never done a Dornish style before,” she admitted honestly.

The princess seemed unbothered by the admission and looked to Sansa with no great concern. “Do you know any of the royal court fashions?” she enquired, which Sansa nodded to.

“A good number of them, Mariah. Why do you ask?”

“Then you have nothing to be concerned about, Sansa. In Dorne, we keep our hair partially free to the wind’s touch unlike the capital where all hair is bound,” she explained kindly, beginning to separate sections of Elia’s hair. “What I have in mind is reserved for occasions such as weddings, hence more complicated than you would have seen of Elia on a normal day.”

It seemed as though Sansa’s help wasn’t necessary just yet, but from what she could ascertain by watching, the general appearance intended was one of half up and half down.

Elia had healthy strong curls like her mother which fanned out beautifully along her back. The upper portion was held together behind Elia’s ears by Mariah’s hands, who turned to Sansa and requested a ribbon and pins. Sansa suspected it was going to be made into a bun.

Retrieving them and taking hold of the left part from Mariah’s left hand, Sansa watched and worked alongside Mariah as the woman took a piece from Sansa time and time again, weaving the strands into an intricate bun that put the natural curling of Elia hair to good use. It was beginning to look like an open flower with a solid centre with slightly visible pins positioned like petals which supported the upper curls.

“Your turn, Sansa,” Elia’s mother said from Elia’s other side, snapping her out of the watchful gaze. Hesitation made Sansa falter, but getting herself under control, Sansa began to replicate Mariah’s efforts but on the other side of the bun. Paying close attention to what she was doing, Sansa was gentle with the hair, tucking the strands she took from Mariah into the pins that went around Elia’s bun.

To herself, Sansa freely admitted that she was notably slower than Mariah, but what mattered most would be the end result. Elia with her hair done and comfortably so. Every now and again, she looked to Mariah for any clues of making a mistake, but the ruling princess was simply watching contently.

Taking the last few strands from Mariah and tucking them into place around the bun, Sansa was looking at the outcome and noticed that although there was a minor difference. However, it was only a matter of tightness by Sansa compared to Mariah’s looser work. Using her nails to make Elia’s styled hair freer in some places and resemble a flower’s petals better, Sansa looked to Mariah who nodded and pushed the pins out of sight and into the bun.

Taking a step back as Elia’s mother took over completely, Sansa watched while the woman adjusted the height of the bun upwards and loosened the hair along the sides and top of Elia’s head slightly; making the natural curling show to give the top half of the style a beautiful but relaxed shape.

Coming from beside her, Ashara handed Sansa a small looking glass so Elia could see the result; Elia’s mother releasing a lock from each side of the face to hang freely.

“That’s beautiful…” commented another girl in admiration. Cat’s voice.

Turning around to see the rest of the chamber, Sansa realised there were more than four people in the chamber now. As heard, Cat was now with them, as well as Oberyn who Mariah promptly shooed out of the chamber. Lady Arryn was presumably with her nephew as was tradition.

While the group of five in this chamber was smaller than the number of female Tyrell relations Sansa met in King’s Landing, it was still unsettling that they’d managed to enter the chamber without Sansa noticing. Normally it would need the Seven Hells to freeze over for Sansa to lose her awareness and be snuck upon after all she’d experienced.

Shaking off the surprise, Sansa turned her attention to Elia and proceeded to show the bride just what her mother and Sansa had done.

Walking around to Elia’s side, Sansa watched as the young princess raised a hand to her lips in silence; eyes moist and disbelieving. On the other side of Elia was Mariah, who leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her daughter’s temple. “I love you, sweetling.”

“Mother…,” Elia said in a seeming loss of what to say. “It’s…I’m…Thank you,” she struggled before settling on meaningful thanks. Her breathe shook for a moment and a tear slipped free from her right eye, which Sansa was quick to wipe away. Elia’s gaze moved to Sansa and she gently took Sansa’s hand. “It’s lovely. I knew you could do it,” she told her, voice full of emotion. “Mother, Sansa. I feel…”

“Gorgeous,” uttered Ashara, approaching Elia and placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Any man who thinks differently today would be a fool. You made your own dress; Mariah and I helped prevent possible accidents putting it on before powdering your face, then Sansa took my place and helped with your hair. We care for you and love you, Elia. We want the best for you. And you will be a beauty out there today,” Ashara told Elia and taking her free hand and giving it a squeeze. “Could you do something for me?”

Turning to her long-term friend, Elia nodded wordlessly.

With a mock-stern expression, Ashara locked eyes with Elia. “Enjoy your wedding, Elia. This is your day.” Elia laughed happily, triggering Ashara, Mariah and Sansa to chuckle.

“Of course, Ashara. All of you have done so much to help me,” the bride promised, rising from her seat and giving each of the three a hug, the last one with her mother was longer than the other two. “I will enjoy this day. I know I will.”

“That’s what any mother wants to hear on her daughter’s wedding day,” Mariah commented before lifting her hands to the back of her neck and removing her elegant piece of jewellery. 

Watching the scene as Elia’s mother proceeded to place that same necklace onto her daughter, Sansa thought the addition was a lovely touch to Elia’s appearance. It complimented the free-flowing Dornish silks of her dress.

“Mother…I don’t know what to say. This has belonged to you for as long as I can remember,” Elia softly spoke, touching the pendant with care while meeting her mother’s eyes. “It belongs to you.”

Mariah smiled and cupped one of Elia’s cheeks. “And now it is yours, my dear. My gift to you on your wedding day,” the ruling princess told Elia in a similar tone. “I want you to have it.”

The scene in front of Sansa was something she had no doubt Elia would cherish. From the expression of Princess Mariah’s face and the surprise of Elia’s, it was clear that this gift had much meaning between the Martell women. This Dornish necklace seemed to be of great sentimental worth; the details unknown to Sansa.

The two women embraced one another for some time but pulled away with Mariah gently pressing a kiss to Elia’s temple.

But that same scene pulled at Sansa's heart, prompting her to glance at Cat who was looking at the floor for a moment and met her eyes. Her sister dabbing at a tear discreetly and Sansa gave a tiny nod of understanding while feeling the pain herself.

_I miss you, Mother. We both do._

Glancing back at Elia and her mother, she felt a little intrusive and looked away towards her sister again and saw the gift Catelyn had long ago decided to give Elia; Catelyn currently holding it, while Ashara stepped forward to give hers to Elia.

Curious to as to what Ashara was presenting to Elia, Sansa watched Elia’s longest friend give her something that by Sansa’s guess to be a tome or framed art. Receiving the gift, Elia removed the bag which concealed its contents to reveal a tome. It was of a moderate size and appeared to be an old one if the aged look of the leather was anything to go by.

Elia opened the tome with great care and glanced at a number of the pages before looking to Ashara with a grateful smile. “My favourite poems. Ashara you didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” Ashara said with a smile. “Every time you came to Starfall you would speak of how beautiful the poetry was. What better person to gift it to than someone who loves them?”

Elia smiled down at the tome and gently handed the tome to her mother. “Thank you, Ashara. You must have been hiding this since we left your home for the tourney.”

“After you spoke of that signed letter Princess Mariah gave you, I felt it best to be prepared with something you would enjoy. It will be put to good use, I’m sure.”

Leaning towards Ashara, Elia gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “This is a wonderful gift. Thank you.”

“I’m pleased you like it.” 

From the corner of her eye, Sansa could see Cat stir with uncertainty so she turned to her sister to discreetly give her a reassuring look. In response Catelyn nodded slightly and stepped forward once Ashara had moved away.

In all honesty Sansa knew that Catelyn hadn’t spent nearly as much time with Elia as she had. So Cat couldn’t be blamed for feeling unsure whether Elia would be disappointed with the gift she intended to present. Sansa watched as her sister gave Elia her gift, and like Ashara’s, concealed within a bag.

“Thank you, Catelyn,” the bride spoke politely, accepting the present with a smile. Taking it out of the bag as she had done with Ashara’s tome, Elia removed a jar from it and turned the item within her hands. It wasn’t made of glass, so no one knew what it was aside from Sansa and Cat. Taking off the lid, Elia looked inside and had an amused look then met Catelyn’s eyes once more. “It looks quite enticing, Catelyn. Could you tell me what’s inside? I can smell the sugar, but I don’t want to tempt myself before the feast,” she asked kindly with interest.

The question appeared to comfort her sister a little, who proceeded to tell everyone what it was. “Fruits grown in the Riverlands, my princess; I dried them above a warm fire then dipped in sugar so they wouldn’t spoil soon,” Cat explained to those within the chamber.

Elia looked torn with temptation for a moment, but picked one up and ate it.

Beside Sansa, Catelyn worried her hands as she clearly hoped Elia liked the gift.

“Mmm…apricot,” Elia spoke in enjoyment and Cat released a breath of relief. “Catelyn, it’s lovely. What other fruits are there?”

“Plum, nectarine, peach and apple. I wasn’t sure what you liked so I had a few different ones.”

Elia put the lid back on the jar and handed it to her mother, smiling at Catelyn as she embraced her for a moment. “Thank you for making these, Catelyn. Truly. I am honestly tempted to try some more today; tomorrow instead would be best.”

“I’m glad you like it, Elia,” Cat said with a calm smile.

“There was much thought in your gift, Catelyn, and I will enjoy it. Thank you.” 

Listening to the words between Elia and her sister, Sansa approached the high harp currently standing to the side of the chamber with a piece of fabric concealing its true form. Currently it looked like a square roughly in the centre of the chamber. The instrument itself was taller than Sansa and approximately the height of Elia and her mother.

Once certain that Elia and Catelyn were finished talking and Cat had stepped away, Sansa stepped forward. “Elia, I wasn’t sure what kind of gift you would like, so I thought mayhaps I could compose something for you instead,” she admitted to Elia before taking the linen off of the high harp, nearly getting covered in that very linen in the process.

There was little response other than Elia nodding with intrigue. Sansa hid her nerves and emotions for she hadn’t done this since before the tourney. Since the days when Mother spent most of her time in the Lady’s bedchambers sleeping, Sansa hadn’t touched a high harp but was determined now to smoothly play the music she had written. Whether she would succeed was unknown, since the only other time Sansa had played the high harp before Riverrun was in Winterfell as a true child.

And that was a long time ago.

Standing beside the large harp, Sansa took a breath and focussed on the story that inspired the music; thinking of the story in her mind with her eyes focussed while lightly pulling the longer strings.

The sound that filled the chamber began soft like a caressing melody. The pace of the lower notes was slow as her left hand strummed the longer strings; her right lightly plucking the shorter strings, creating gentle yet higher notes. Those higher notes compared to her lower ones almost sounds like someone was singing a song’s lyrics.

She hadn’t written music in years and felt glad she’d paced most of the music at a moderate speed, instead of that of her faster skills in the past.

Listening to the unspoken words within the music, she could remember the times she’d spent with Elia at Lannisport; where they both made a promise to the other; where Elia had told Sansa that her secret was safe with her and Oberyn, and to trust in them, which Sansa agreed she would try. That same encounter, Elia promised to Sansa to believe that she could be beautiful.

Moving her hand towards slightly shorter strings while remaining on higher notes, Sansa allowed herself to become absorbed in the memory and played the music as she had intended. What she’d composed was based on all of her experiences by Elia’s side.

Shifting down to longer strings and playing a slower pace, she thought about the time she’d shown Oswell and Joseth to Elia. Within that nursery as the babes still slept, Elia asked permission before picking up Sansa’s babe brothers; cooing softly and fingers touching their hair with the softness of whispering wind.

Elia had been so cautious and caring with them; staring at them with soft eyes for a long time. ‘You truly do love them, Sansa’. Sansa could only nod at the time while gently grasping Joseth’s tiny fingers.

Playing a few more moments at that soft and slow melody of low and medium pitch notes, Sansa refocused her attention and braced herself for the part about Elia getting married. Faster plucking of the strings and moving away towards the higher notes; the medium notes were her lowest.

She could hear the words in her head as she played and felt convinced that Elia might be hearing them too; the faster playing of Sansa’s highest notes was very likely to sound like words compared to the lower sounds.

_Nervous,_

_But don’t care,_

_You’ve never felt so light,_

_Everything... is just right,_

_A smile that has made you bright._

_So bright…...  
_

Daring a glance up at Elia and away from the strings of the harp, Sansa noticed Elia was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief for a moment while a smile graced her face. Sansa wasn’t sure whether it was merely the music or if Elia understood there’d been words within her music.

Either way, she returned her attention back to the high harp and continued playing the rest of her gift for Elia.

The pace slowed down slightly and eased to a lower pitch; now a gentle melody again that filled the chamber with pleasant music; a festive tune that had the ladies in the chamber looking quite happy.

Seeing they were all pleased, Sansa made to return her full attention to the high harp again, but her pinkie got caught on one string; it was never used on a harp of any size or kind. Not letting the stumble in her music ruin her composition completely, she played on as though the note had been part of the music all along.

Slowly she reached the end of her piece, feeling mostly satisfied with how she had done. Practice would have made it better, but there was only so much she could do in a day.

Stepping away from the high harp, she curtsied to the other ladies as she hoped she had played acceptably for them.

Approaching her from the front of the group, Elia took Sansa into an embrace and gave her a brief squeeze. “That was wonderful. Thank you.”

Relieved that Elia had like it, and as a wedding gift at that, Sansa gave Elia a brief smile and rejoined the other females in the chamber. Each gave her expressions and words of enjoying the music.

Looking to the window, it was clear that the day was beginning to reach midday, and it wasn’t long after that thought that there was a knock at the door drawing all of their attention. Mariah was the one who promptly answered it, revealing the visitor to be Oberyn again.

“Sister, you look stunning,” he complimented Elia and turned back to Mariah. “Everyone else is gathered in the sept and ready, Mother.”

It required little prompting for the ladies within the chamber to depart for the sept, Sansa discreetly lurking near Elia until she absolutely had to enter the sept or look strange for lingering.

Sending a prayer to the old gods that all would go well, she left Elia and Oberyn outside the sept while she went inside to witness the ceremony with the rest of the visitors. Oberyn standing in for his father as the man of the family to give Elia to Ser Elbert.

Elia was truly a beauty this morning, especially with her smile that brought light to the rest of her features.

She was a happy bride.


	41. Elia's Wedding

JAIME LANNISTER

_Day 28, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Inside the sept near the marriage altar positioned between the Mother and the Father, Jaime stood beside Uncle Gery; the bannerman lords standing closer to the doors waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Across the pathway, Princess Elia would walk was the Baratheon family; Lord and Lady Baratheon side by side with Stannis in from of them, but Robert partly concealed from view by his father.

And Jaime knew why; a smirk twitching at the sight of a bruise marking Robert’s left temple and eye. It seemed the gods had decided to do Jaime a favour when the opportunity came.

Yesterday when the lords and lord paramounts had gone hunting for tonight’s feast, the heir of House Baratheon had eagerly chosen to sneak out of the castle in pursuit of the men before there was too much of a gap between them.

Watching from the battlements Jaime had witnessed Robert ride after the lords before he decided to alert Lady Baratheon to what had happened, for Lord Baratheon was amongst the hunting party that left earlier.

Something happened outside the castle, Jaime neglected the details, which resulted in Robert’s injury but no loss of sight.

_I’m no savage, but he got lucky doing that. Bet the maester was relieved._

Feeling a hand on his back, Jaime knew it was his uncle next to him warning him to hide his amusement in Robert’s accident. It was kind of a difficult thing to hide honestly. After overhearing Robert speak about Sansa in such a disrespectful way, getting revenge had been a stubborn fire within him that he couldn’t put out. It wasn’t part of who Jaime was; to pretend that everything was okay after what Robert had said.

But Jaime knew deep down that if he didn’t smother the smirk to only a smile, he was going to be in trouble. Father would be having Jaime’s hide later if he was here.

_Besides, the gods have given Robert the black eye I promised him._

Remembering that and keeping that in his thoughts, he made himself smile instead. The doors of the sept were closed but there was a pattering of someone’s haste, so Jaime looked towards the sound of light but quick feet in the direction of Ser Brynden. Emerging from behind her uncle, Sansa took her place beside her sister in front of Ser Brynden.

It wasn’t like Sansa to be so close to running late, but there was that hidden look of worry. She must have felt his eyes looking her way because she turned her attention his way and after a second tilted her head a tiny bit to the side with an asking expression.

Taking the chance, he mouthed his question. ‘Worried?’

Through her normal mask, Jaime could see some guilt in her eyes and nodded ‘A little. Probably nothing, Jaime.’

Nodding in reply, he watched as she turned her eyes back to the doors of the sept before he did so himself. And after a moment two men standing guard outside the doors opened them to reveal Princess Elia in a pretty Dornish white silk dress that flowed like water as she walked. Hair fanned out behind her shoulders while some hair was styled up in something Jaime could not see yet. A true smile that lit up her face and showed that she was genuinely happy. 

Beside her and looking proud was Oberyn, a man Jaime hadn’t expected to befriend but had anyway. Rested upon his arm was the arm of Princess Elia as Oberyn began to escort his sister to the marriage altar between the Mother and Father, where the septon stood waiting. Ser Elbert looking in the direction of the princess with stunned surprise not daring to look away.

Patiently watching the Martell siblings as they walked pass the lord paramounts, Jaime was quiet and respectful as Princess Elia approached the altar, despite having a lesser interest in the ceremony compared to the gushing ladies who’d come. From the expression on Sansa’s face when their eyes met as Princess Elia passed them, Sansa was happy for her friend and truly enjoying herself, more than Jaime anyway; the worry faded from her face as Prince Oberyn reached the top of the stairs with his sister and passed her hand into that of Elbert Arryn.

Both man and bride stood finely dressed before the septon at the marriage altar; the princess in her maiden cloak of House Martell.

In front of the septon and crowd, Ser Elbert and Princess Elia made seven vows to one another; all of them spoken with confidence.

Seven blessings were then given; one by Princess Mariah, Oberyn, Lord and Lady Arryn, and three by the septon on behalf of the gods.

Jaime was tempted to shift on his feet, but knew to do so was not wise as the representative of House Lannister. Glancing at Sansa for a second, Jaime caught her eye and she seemed to know his itch to move before giving a sympathetic smile.

Next at the marriage altar were seven promises exchanged between Ser Elbert and Elia. Promises of fidelity, care, support, and other such things; all the while both of them smiling to one another.

 _Did Father smile at his wedding?_ Jaime wondered idly.

Next was the singing of a wedding song by Ruling Princess Mariah Martell, her voice carrying throughout the circular sept and echoing slightly. The words of a Valyrian language, but not Low Valyrian which he was learning from Sansa. This song sounded melodic and refined. High Valyrian, he guessed.

When Princess Mariah finished the wedding song, she returned to her place in the crowd as they clapped, while the septon’s attention went to the audience within the sept.

The clapping dropped away and everyone was listening for the septon’s words. “Do any present have reason to oppose the marriage of Elbert Arryn and Elia Martell?” he asked the watchful lords and ladies. Glancing towards the bannerman houses, Jaime could see one or two lords shift on their feet but ultimately didn’t say a word.

The septon had waited a moment more and still, no one had spoken, which was no doubt a relief for Lord Arryn. From behind the marriage altar, the septon relaxed and continued with a smile. “My lords, my ladies, my princess and prince,” The septon said looking to the mentioned nobility in turn. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. Of Elbert Arryn and Elia Martell.” 

Turning to Ser Elbert, the septon spoke to him directly but could be heard throughout the sept. “You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection as wife,” the man spoke formally yet warmly.

Watching the ceremony from where he was positioned, Jaime noticed that Lady Arryn handed the bride’s cloak to Lord Arryn quite weakly. The Lord Paramount of the Vale, in turn, gave the bride’s cloak of House Arryn to his nephew. Meanwhile, Oberyn removed the maiden cloak of House Martell from Princess Elia’s shoulders and discreetly thumbed Elia’s shoulder once before stepping away, but she didn’t look scared; she looked emboldened.

The heir was careful as he cloaked Princess Elia in the colours of House Arryn, which made the princess smile once he was standing back in front and facing her before the septon. A moment later Ser Elbert spoke for all to hear as he held his hand over hers, eyes locked onto hers. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

The princess’s voice was clear as she stared back at the man before her. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband,” she said with no stumble in her words, the truth in her voice and the shine in her eyes.

The septon stepped forward with a blue and cream ribbon, slowly wrapping it in the shape of a cross multiple times. Neither bride nor groom breaking eye contact as it was done. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” the septon intoned and turned his attention to the happy pair in front of him.  “Look upon one another and say the words.”

Watching from where he stood, Jaime witnessed the two twenty-year-olds do exactly that in unison with smiles on their faces. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and he is mine; from this day, until the end of my days.”

Movement from the corner of Jaime’s eye drew his attention to Sansa, who was watching the ceremony and smiling really nicely as the crowd applauded the newlyweds standing at the altar during their slow kiss.

“Let it be known that Elia of House Nymeros Martell and Elbert of House Arryn are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” the septon spoke once the din died down. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

The crowd was clapping again, this time as the new husband and wife left the marriage altar and towards the sept doors. Glancing at Sansa, her eyes were following them with a smile on her face as she watched the sept begin to empty of bannerman lords and ladies, then the Great Houses’ families with Uncle Gery in the middle of the group.

But Jaime noticed something and decided to linger near a pillar.

While everyone was leaving, including the Great Houses, there was one group that had yet to move in the direction of the doors.

Lord Jon Arryn and Lady Belmore, Elbert’s widowed mother, were both looking at Lady Rowena Arryn with concern. Said lady was using Lord Jon’s body as support to lower herself down onto the stairs near the place where the members of House Arryn had stood.

Lady Rowena was weak. Jaime had noticed that since the tourney, but right now as Lord Jon sat his wife down on the stairs Jaime had a gut feeling that this was something more. Not making a sound and not moving an inch, he witnessed as she leaned against Lord Jon closing her eyes as she rested her head on the lord paramount’s shoulder.

Words were being murmured and it was clear that Lady Rowena’s responses were weak by how little her lips moved. How little she moved at all really.

It was obvious what was happening and he didn’t want to watch, but neither would he be craven and turn away to attempt fooling himself with a lie.

She was dying and no longer had the will to fight the Stranger.

What Lady Rowena had done was in a way, dare he say it, admirably noble. To fight against the Stranger at such an important time so her goodnephew would have the memory of her being at his wedding.

No one would have blamed the choice of resting in bed to try healing to live another day. But the only thing that made sense to Jaime was the lady had known she was reaching the end, and made the sacrifice of a possible tomorrow for the sake of her nephew’s wedding.

Her absence at the feast could be concealed with words of exhaustion. Mayhaps she had thought of the believable lie earlier.

Standing there hidden by the pillar and felt craven after thinking about all of this, Jaime quietly stepped out from his hiding place and approached the Arryn family members with quiet steps.

He’d never seen with his own eyes the death of Mother, only told about it and paid his respects to her in the sept. Right here, right now, this lady was at the Stranger’s mercy and her last moment was unknown, except that it was soon. But he would not be craven.

Knights are not craven.

They noticed him coming closer with deliberate steps but didn’t instruct him to leave. All the same, however, Jaime felt he shouldn’t be here for too long. Lady Rowena was the wife of Lord Jon, who likely wanted time with her. Dropping to one knee and looking the tiring woman in the eyes, Jaime bowed his head briefly and spoke. “That was very noble of you, my lady. I won’t speak a word to the others, I swear before the Seven. I know you wouldn’t want me to speak.”

She smiled weakly and gave a tiny nod in thanks.

Looking to Lord Arryn and Lady Belmore who nodded to him, he bowed to each of them and quickly left, giving the family what time that remained for Lady Arryn.

Making his way to the Great Hall for the feast, Jaime snuck in and took a seat next to his uncle instead of those near his age. After witnessing what he had, no one could reasonably think badly of him for wanting to just be quiet for the rest of the day.

Jaime hadn’t seen Lady Arryn die, but he had been really close to. And nonetheless, to see someone like that was not something you shake off like the shock of a surprise. Chances were he was going to stir in his sleep with her face in his mind for the next sennight, if not longer.

Staying quiet in his seat, Jaime simply ate what a servant had given him just like everyone else was doing, except they were happily talking. Not long after, Ser Elbert’s uncle and mother arrived, claiming Lady Rowena had grown tired and left for her chambers for much-needed rest.

Inside the Great Hall, there were no expressions of surprise, for it had been known Lady Arryn direly needed rest since returning to the Gates of the Moon. The feast continued on as though nothing had happened, and to the unknowing guest, nothing had happened. He was the only guest with a clue.

Looking around the hall, Jaime spotted Sansa looking as tight as a bowstring as though expecting trouble. Finishing his first serving, Jaime moved over to where she was sitting watchfully of everyone at the long table for Houses Martell and Arryn.

Taking a seat next to her, he spoke his thoughts. “What are you watching?”

Her reaction was a tiny flinch before resting her arms in her lap. “Elia and Elbert, they’re so happy,” she replied in a tone of melancholy and caution.

Looking to the mentioned pair, Jaime saw for himself that Sansa’s comment was accurate, for the two spoke with open smiles and whispers in ears often ending in a laugh from one of both of them.

He looked to Sansa confused by her. “She is your best friend, Sansa. So why aren’t you happy?”

Sansa turned her gaze to him and Jaime could see the fear hidden in her eyes. “I’m happy for her. I am. The bannermen though, Jaime. Some of them aren’t happy that Ser Elbert married Elia. I saw the way they hesitated when the septon asked if anyone objected. They wanted to but didn’t do anything in the sept, so they’ll do it underhanded somewhere else. A feast is ideal.”

Jaime was staring at Sansa and took both of her hands. “Sansa, there’s only so much anyone can do.”

“Do what?” the voice of Ser Brynden questioned, turning towards Sansa from the other side of her.

“Protect the ones she loves,” Jaime replied hoping that no one hearing his words would think in depth about what Jaime truly meant.

Brynden Tully looked to his niece with mild concern before placing a hand on her shoulder and steering her to a corner of the Great Hall. “Sansa, listen to me and listen well,” he began sternly without being loud. Jaime could hear because he was near and wanted to know why Sansa had her guard up at a wedding of all events. True, Rowena Arryn just passed away of a winter cold, but it wasn’t a malicious cause.

_She needs to relax and enjoy today. Those bannermen could have just been a little uncomfortable having a Dornishwoman as their future Lady Arryn. Dorne rarely involves itself with anything in Westeros aside from tourneys._

“You care about your friends, I understand that, but this is going too far, Niece,” Ser Brynden was saying to Sansa seriously.

“The bannerman houses uncle-“

“-likely were seen hesitating by Lord Jon. He wants the princess as his nephew’s wife. They’re hardly likely to do anything,” Ser Brynden cut her off and grasped her other shoulder. “I know you have been watchful since your mother died. Fighting in the Ninepenny Kings taught me many things, especially noticing a pattern, Sansa. And I’ve noticed one with you.”

Interested in what the knight was going to talk about, Jaime made sure no one was nearby to hear but it was very likely that Ser Brynden had already thought about and prepared for that. They were in a quiet area of the Great Hall with few people after all.

Jaime turned his attention to listen to Ser Brynden. “You take it upon yourself to help and protect your family. First, it was your mother, then your sisters during that business with Cersei Lannister, now you’re extending it to your friends,” he pointed out to her and Jaime could see she was nodding in admission. “Helping and protecting those you love is important, Sansa, but you cannot do that if you don’t look after yourself properly.”

For a moment Sansa seemed a little confused and blinked a few times, but Ser Brynden continued. “You’re trying to control what you cannot, Sansa. And because you cannot control it, you’re becoming stressed to the point that a boy noticed it across the hall. This must stop, Sansa.”

“Elia’s my friend. Shouldn’t I be worried if I suspect something?”

“And what do you suspect, Niece?”

“Some bannerman lords stirred when the septon asked if anyone opposed the marriage but never said anything. Poisoned wine, most likely; it could happen.”

Ser Brynden was looking frustrated for a moment but didn’t let the expression linger. “And you’re making yourself this concerned based on seeing a few men move their feet in the sept? Sansa, do you realise that those men could have been curious whether or not a different bannerman house was going to object? Should that be the case, then you’re stressing yourself during an occasion you by all rights should be enjoying today.”

Sansa looked a little defeated but didn’t give up. “What if I’m right, Uncle?”

The knight was looking as though he was beginning to lose some of his patience. “Sansa you cannot control the situation. Did you hear anyone talk about it? Do you have something that would be used? Neither, Sansa. Let this matter of shuffling feet go or you’re not going to Winterfell with your sister to see her future home.”

Sansa’s lips parted in shock at the warning from her uncle and she swallowed before nodding. “Yes, Uncle Brynden.”

“You worry me, girl. The stress I’ve seen you put yourself through is unhealthy and unwise. Your mother loved you and wouldn’t want this, as brief as she knew you. I know you desire to see the direwolf, but any more of this business and you’re going home to Riverrun, young lady.”

“I understand, Uncle,” Sansa replied quietly.

From where he stood, Jaime could see that witnessing the direwolf in Winterfell meant a lot to Sansa. Whether it was to see the strange creature or for another reason entirely, she was determined to go. It was a visible struggle for her, but Jaime knew that she was a girl that did what she had to do to get what she wants.

“Good, Sansa. We won’t be having a discussion about this topic again. Be it one moon or three.”

“Yes, Uncle Brynden,” Sansa spoke in response.

The knight gave her shoulder a squeeze and returned to a conversation with Lord Steffon.

Sansa wasn’t as quick to move from her spot as her uncle has been. Instead, she remained there for a moment looking around the Great Hall in thought.

Giving her some space, Jaime didn’t go over there immediately, for he imagined that it had been something of a surprise for Sansa to be scolded with discretion in the same room as the feast. He had yet to remember a time where he witnessed Sansa got in trouble with an adult Tully.

Jaime took no joy in triggering Sansa getting such a big scolding as one that size, however, he couldn’t honestly say that he regretted accidentally causing it. Sansa’s habit of seeing trouble where there was none, or hardly even worth bothering about, was an unhealthy habit which only made her stressed and unhappy.

He hadn’t meant to make it happen, but he wasn’t going to apologise for it.

After a short moment later she left the corner where Ser Brynden had spoken to her about stressing herself about something that didn’t exist. Never in the past though had Jaime see her be persistent about anything, but today had been an exception. She’d seemed so convinced that something was going to happen to Elia.

Something was secretly bothering her, but Jaime wasn’t going prod a beehive that just settled after Ser Brynden gave it a good shake with his scolding.

Letting her come to him, and glad that she didn’t seem angry with him, Jaime guided her towards the one area of the hall that he knew she would enjoy more than anything else in the Great Hall; the dance floor.

At the moment servants were gathering the dishes of the entrée from all of the tables, which encourage the guests to either dance or interact.

Elia and Elbert were an exception at the Arryn/Martell table, happily talking to one another and sometimes turned to their blood relations to hear a jape or probably a piece of gossip. Lord Jon Arryn was staying in his seat for obvious to Jaime reasons, Princess Mariah was sitting with Princess Elia, or Lady Elia now, while Oberyn was within the crowd on the dance floor with a pretty lady from one of the bannerman houses of the Vale.

Everyone near Jaime’s age was dancing while the servants were clearing the plates, all but Robert Baratheon who was avoiding drawing much attention to himself. No doubt embarrassed by the poorly-timed bruised eye.

_Gods, his mother wasn’t too pleased about that bruise._

He had to look away before he reached the point of laughing. The gods or Robert Baratheon couldn’t have timed the accident better.

Looking around for Stannis, Jaime noticed that while there wasn’t a great deal of difference in the way the older boy acted, the Baratheon was a little more at ease dancing with the Vale girl now compared to dancing at the tourney back at the Westerlands. At the tourney, Stannis had been so stiff and formal like a spiritless person that Jaime felt sorry for the poor girl dancing with him that day.

Dancing with Sansa, Jaime didn’t say much because he wasn’t sure what to say. The pair of them had good technique and timing like the tourney, but he could tell Sansa wasn’t feeling joy from it; not that he expected her to. After all, she had just been told off by her uncle for being worried about a friend; that had to sting a bit.

Sansa seemed a little distracted for a minute before looking to the ground in guilt and meeting Jaime’s eyes with her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she uttered softly, giving him a small apologetic smile. “I haven’t been the best of companions today; especially today. Elia’s wedding.” Jaime didn’t interrupt and just let her say what she needed to. It felt like she had a bit more left. “My uncle was right…and I realise now that I worried about what isn’t there. I’m sorry, Jaime. Please understand why; I loved my mother but she’s in a better place now. Elia is a good friend and I don’t want to lose her.”

Nodding to Sansa’s quiet admission, Jaime didn’t say a word for the time being.

“I know I went too far with my worry,” she said softly. Eyes glancing at those obliviously dancing near them. “Please, forgive me.”

It was an honest relief to hear from Sansa that she knew and understood that she was making a mistake and slipping down a slope, dare he say, of paranoia. Thinking about her apology, Jaime supposed he could understand why she overreacted about Elia. He too had lost his mother very early; he’d been seven. Sansa was taken away from hers, got to be with Lady Minisa for almost two moons then lost her again.

When Jaime thought about his aunt Genna and how she was important to Jaime, he guessed Sansa thought about Elia in a similar way, but more like friends than an aunt.

He’d noticed that Sansa didn’t reach out for help very much; trying to be strong and handle everything by herself. To stand by and let her do that when he’s around wasn’t something he wanted to do anymore. “Sansa, I forgive you, but will you promise me something?”

Watching those deep blue eyes, Jaime saw the surprise and curiosity. “What is it?”

“If something is on your mind and I’m present; talk to me about it,” he explained, watching her response then realising he needed to add something. “Talk to me about some things, at least. I want to help.”

Her nod wasn’t immediate, but she did reply to his request politely. “I might not always remember to, but I will about some thoughts, Jaime.”

He just hated the thought of being useless when he could do something good, even if it was just listening to her talking. “Thank you, Sansa,” he said. “I want to help you.”

She smiled at his reply and soon after he felt one of his own smiles forming. He felt good knowing that Sansa would come to him when something was bothering her. Although she admitted that she might not always remember to, it made him feel better knowing she would reach out to him.

He liked his friendship with Sansa and wanted her to be happy.

The people on the dance floor were beginning to return to their seats at the tables, which now had various main courses within reach.

Up at the marriage table, however, the servants were bringing out the wedding pie along with a large knife for the bride and groom to cut it together and release the birds inside. Ser Elbert rose from the table first and offered his arm to Lady Elia, who accepted it and walked with her husband to the pie until they were standing in front of it. Ser Elbert took the knife first and stepped to the side a little until there was space for Lady Elia to grip the handle as well.

As one, the two cut through the pie and a flock of doves flew free and up into the sky; husband and wife watching them before looking at one another with a smile.

Leaving the knife with servants, the married couple each took a piece of the pie and returned to their seats. The servants following them to the Martell/Arryn table and handing a piece to each member of the joined families. Ser Elbert happily spoke with his uncle and Lady Elia spoke to her mother as the pie was being carried around the Great Hall and shared out to the wedding guests.

Now with a piece of the pie on his plate, Jaime looked to Sansa beside him and saw her holding her piece thoughtfully before taking a bite. Jaime knew that the wedding pie was a custom of the Faith whereas the Old Gods didn’t include such a thing as this in their weddings.

The only reason he knew such things was he’d been curious about what differences there were between the two religions. Sansa had told him in secret that she followed the old gods, not the Faith of the Seven.

She’d just seemed to be curious about the pie, so he didn’t dwell on his thoughts for too long.

The feast was now in full swing as everyone ate and talked merrily. Including Sansa and Jaime, who discussed what they would be doing once they parted ways within the sennight. Sansa going to Winterfell with her sister and the Starks, while Jaime would make for King’s Landing via Gull town but on a separate ship to Princess Mariah and Prince Oberyn, who’d be making directly for Sunspear.

He was honestly excited about training under Ser Arthur Dayne’s watchful eyes in swordcraft.

But he would never join the Kingsguard. At the tourney, Ser Oswell Whent had been explaining to Sansa and Catelyn what it was like to serve, and Jaime didn’t want what the unhappy kingsguard mentioned when meeting his nieces that day.

Time went by as the feast continued and the lords and ladies were starting to get deep in their cups; mainly the lords. And as a result, they were calling for the bedding quite clearly.

“Time to sheath the sword, my lord!” one rather drunk bannerman called out.

“Cold in those silks, beautiful?”

Sansa beside him was muttering under her breath. “It’s layers of fabric, you idiots. You won’t be able to grope her, as much as you may want to.” Jaime sniggered at Sansa’s comment but didn’t say anything as the men continued.

“Bedding!”

“Bedding ceremony!”

After a moment, Lady Elia was led by her brother to the men who would be escorting her to her bedchamber and making rude japes all the while as they undressed along the way.

Oberyn nodded to Lady Elia, who gave a thankful smile as he remained close to her.

_Oberyn loves his sister. He’ll keep the others in line._

Once the men were gathered near Lady Elia the japes began as Oberyn carried her on his shoulder and out of the Great Hall; the other men peeling the layers of the silk from the gown.

Ser Elbert received a very similar treatment minus getting carried; the ladies of the feast undressing the Arryn heir from his garments and making japes as he walked out of the Great Hall.

 

ELIA ARRYN

Outside her bedchamber was the shouted suggestions of men and women alike, but Elia did her best to ignore them so she could focus on her husband.

His journey from the Great Hall seemed to involve losing much more clothing than she had; his doublet was gone, tunic half open and hanging out of his breeches. Hair was ruffled from the process, and Elia reached up to it and brushed a lock out of his face despite how much she liked the look.

Elbert caught her hand before it was by her side again, and proceeded to kiss the inside of her wrist to her elbow, sending shivers down her spine as a result. “A little overdressed, wife mine,” he murmured into her ear and nipped it while removing the pins in her hair. “But I do like surprises.”

The low voice and his touches were making her breath become harder and deeper.

With his hands in her hair to unravel it, Elia drank in the sight before her and running her fingers from his chest to his stomach; running over the muscle no doubt gained from knighthood and tourneys. She felt a long breath in her hair as she did it. A sigh of pleasure from Elbert.

She felt the bun fall open; her locks coming to rest on her back and free from the confines it had been in.

Instead of Elbert stepping away, he remained closed and gave her temple a chaste kiss. “May I unwrap my surprise, my lady?” he asked her in that low tone.

“Yes, Elbert, I…,” she replied nervously. “I would like that.” She knew what to expect but there seemed to be much her mother hadn’t told her about. This man taking his time being one of them.

She felt him move around her with a kiss to her neck and bring her hair over one shoulder, giving him a view of her partly undone laces. He snaked his hand into the bodice and resting it on her stomach; the warmth of his hand adding to what she could already feel pooling within her. His other hand slowly sliding her gown off of her body, lips following where his hand had been; her breath heavier from the tingling nerves his lips left behind.

“I’ll take care of you, Elia.”

A moment later his hand cupped her womanhood; the other, her breast, thumb teasing her.

His fingers explored then touched her in such a way that she gasped and rested her head against his shoulder.

“Elbert…”

She did not doubt his words.


	42. Day After the Wedding

ELBERT ARRYN

_Day 29, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Elbert woke in a bed not his own, it felt different, and he also felt the weight of someone sprawled upon him. After a moment, he could see properly and was welcomed with the sight of his wife sleeping peacefully; half upon his chest and half upon her bed.

Playing with a single lock of his wife’s hair idly as she slept, he remembered their night together; a night he wanted to relive, but not today for it was too soon for a former maiden.

For she had been a maiden despite being Dornish; Elbert had seen it in Elia’s eyes yesterday, the nerves shown in her hesitation and uncertainty. So he’d taken his time to make sure he didn’t needlessly hurt her more than he had to. Like her, he had little experience; however, he did have the conversations between men over the years about pleasuring their wives. Some recalling intimacy and patience making it better for the men and their spouse.

When he’d been a knight on his sixteenth nameday, old enough to be considered a man grown, Elbert had visited a brothel with his fellow squires to celebrate. Like those men, he’d left the brothel later on with pleasure fresh in his mind, but he’d quickly decided it was a vice he didn’t want. And Arryns don’t sire bastards, be it with whores or smallfolk daughters; it was not the way of his family.

As High as Honour.

The other men had cursed his sense of honour, but he never changed his mind. 

So he knew things from the conversations and that one time, and that was all.

But he’d done what he could last night so he didn’t seem like an uncaring man to his wife. A woman he was slowly growing fond of as he spent more time with her.

Softly running his fingers through Elia’s hair, Elbert watched as she slept peacefully upon him. He didn’t mind. In fact, he found it oddly pleasing to have her there and made no attempt to wake her.

 _She will wake when she’s ready,_ he thought as he saw her smile in her sleep.

Lazily he remained in bed and brushed Elia’s hair with his fingers, mind on his wedding night which brought a smile to his face.

 

She’d been nervous in the beginning, but when he’d taken his time as he explored her body and peppered it with slow kisses, she’d become relaxed and receptive to his touch, hesitantly exploring his own in response, and smiling when he encouraged it. Only when he felt she was comfortable did Elbert lower himself onto his elbows, their bodies sharing warmth as they touched.

The nerves returned to Elia and in her eyes, he had seen she was steeling herself for pain. He hadn’t wanted her to remember the night with thoughts of pain, so teased her body until her breath was quick and heavy, and her eyes darkened with lust.

He’d known then that she was as ready as she could ever be as a maid, and nonetheless taken his time. Distracting her with hands in her hair and kisses to her breasts as she adjusted, Elbert waited until the right moment and muffled her whimper of pain with his lips, murmuring sorry into her ear shortly after.

Elia had merely pecked his cheek and rested her hands on his back, applying pressure which made him look to her, feeling slightly confused. It was then that she had spoken. “I knew it would, Elbert. You don’t have to apologise.”

Every maiden feels pain, he knew from other men, but a man can reduce that pain by being patient and gentle in bed, he’d heard from other knights over the years at small Vale tourneys.

In the moonlit chamber, he hadn’t known what to say, but Elia brought him into a long kiss, stoking the fire of his desire once more.

 

Looking at Elia’s bare back being warmed by the sunlight as she slept, Elbert sighed at the memory of the rest of that night. Idly, he brushed the sleeping woman’s back with his fingers.

Elia stirred upon his chest and her lashes lifted to reveal her dark Dornish eyes, drawing him out of the memory replaying in his mind. With her hands resting one upon the other on top of his chest, Elia rested her chin there and looked to his eyes; her smile serene and happy. “Good morrow, husband,” she greeted him, delivering a chaste kiss to his lips. “You were a true gentleman last night, Elbert.”

He had a pretty good idea what she was talking about and traced her body with a hand while watching her happiness bring out her hidden beauty. “Of course, my princess,” he replied, taking one hand with his own.

“Princess?” she asked him in confusion. “Not anymore, Elbert. And without regret.”

“In private, you’ll always be ‘My Princess’,” Elbert told her, bringing a soft smile to her face.

Elia leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss, which he returned as he loosely bunched her hair in one hand.

There was a hint of mild pain in her eyes, so Elbert moved her from his chest and took her into his arms, her back against him. According to married knights, a little pressure in the right place helped ease any pain after the first night, so he rested a hand down low on her belly and rubbed it gently, waiting for a breath of relief he remembered them mentioning.

She will be sore for at least another day; a maiden needs time to recover, those knights had also said. His mother had said nearly the same to him before the wedding, an awkward conversation to be sure.

He didn’t want his wife to think he was a selfish man and come to resent him. So, Elbert, despite his desire Elia no doubt felt against her arse, did what an unkind lord would never do; he denied himself of his rights and showed his wife he was no brute.

He was glad his uncle had organised for the Dornish princess to be his wife. After meeting her, it wasn’t difficult to see she was a kind and clever woman with a gentle heart.

But marrying her to him wasn’t politically wise as far as Elbert believed.

The vassal lords wouldn’t be too pleased and possibly insulted with his uncle’s choice. Their daughters had been passed over in favour of a woman from another kingdom, especially Dorne; a land looked down upon by most.

It will be expected and best of Elbert to get Elia with a child soon to secure her position. If she provided him with an heir, the more outspoken Vale vassals would have one less reason to use against her. While Elbert was aware that his uncle’s previous and current wives hadn’t given Uncle Jon a surviving heir, both women from the Vale, Elbert felt the vassal lords didn’t see things that way.

Looking to Elia he hopes the problem is only his uncle and not the Arryn bloodline. His own father died shortly before Elbert was alive, but Elbert had been strong as a boy, so he didn’t know how events would play out.

He prayed silently that he will not have the same problems his uncle does, who had no son or daughter of his own. His aunt by blood, Aunt Alys Waynwood, had only had daughters so far.

There was hope yet.

Kissing Elia’s neck, and Elbert held her close as they lay languidly in bed; fingers woven together in the peaceful chamber.

They’ll break their fast later.

 

STEFFON BARATHEON

As far as Steffon was concerned, his visit to the Vale had been one disappointment after another in the form of his heir’s behaviour.

Three days ago, he, in the company of Rickard Stark, overheard Robert encouraging Eddard to ‘make the eight’ before an eventual marriage to Ashara Dayne, while gloating about how many he’d done so far.

Oh, but it hadn’t stopped there. His son had taken it a step further and commented crudely about Lady Sansa, suggesting he wouldn’t have minded the idea of bedding the girl had she had a woman’s figure and not betrothed to Jaime Lannister.

Steffon had hoped that was the end of it, but by the gods had he been wrong.

Jaime Lannister, true to his sigil, had roared his rage loud enough for the guest wing to hear.

Had his son attempted to fix the situation? Most definitely not, instead of an apology and claiming it to be a poor jape, his son rubbed salt in the wound by suggesting Jaime Lannister was too craven to punch Robert himself after the younger boy requested Eddard to do it since the Stark boy wasn’t a guest.  

And, of course, that resulted in the Lannister heir vowing that Robert would be receiving a black eye from him on the day Jaime left for insulting his intended.

By that point, Steffon had absolutely known Rickard would never betroth Lyanna to Robert after such a poor display of behaviour. Shaming behaviour.

Had Robert stopped interpreting the entire conversation as one big jape? No, instead, he laughed and mocked Jaime Lannister’s anger as though Tywin’s heir was overreacting.

Although Eddard hadn’t struck Robert, it had been clear he didn’t agree with Robert’s talk and sided with Jaime Lannister. To that, Robert practically dared Eddard to punch him.

So much damage had been done from that conversation alone, so Steffon barged into Robert’s bedchamber before the matter could escalate any higher if possible.

Steffon had been so humiliated he’d been too furious to do anything other than calling his son by his full name and glare at Robert with clarity that showed the anger. He’d said nought but one thing.

“Don’t believe for a second that this is over, Robert Baratheon.”

He’d known there and then that if he proceeded to scold his son for what he just said and consequentially done, that Steffon’s fury would only make matters worse.

Was that all? No, there was another situation where Steffon had to stow his anger for after the wedding.

Two days ago, the day before the wedding, the lords and lord paramounts went on a hunt to get fresh meat for the wedding’s feast. However, Steffon hadn’t gotten far before seeing his son’s spooked horse run past the hunting party without a rider in the saddle. Telling the others to go on ahead for the hunt, Steffon wheeled his horse around back towards the Gates of the Moon. It hadn’t taken long to find the source of the commotion and located his son sitting against a tree and nursing his head.

The fall had been one of luck. Robert could easily have lost sight in one eye for gallivanting after the hunting party he wasn’t welcome to.

Yesterday had been the wedding of Elbert Arryn and Elia Martell; no problems caused by a bruised Robert.

But today was finally his chance for him to let his son have it for all the humiliation and shame he’d done.

Steffon was mad, but he had enough brains to take his son to a clearing near the castle so House Baratheon didn’t suffer any further scrutiny.

So here they stood; father and son away from the eyes and ears of the many.

“‘Making the Eight‘, Robert? Making the damned Eight?! You have brought our house into disgrace japing about bedding Lady Sansa! A betrothed girl and to House Lannister no less! House Lannister!!” Steffon shouted, finally releasing the anger that boiled within his blood for the past three days. “FUCKING GIRLS AND FIGHTING SEEMS TO BE ALL YOU CARE ABOUT!”

“It was a jape, Father-“

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME, ROBERT BARATHEON,” Steffon snapped out at his son. “STANNIS WOULD MAKE A BETTER HEIR THAN YOU, AND I’M DAMN TEMPTED TO MAKE IT SO. AND YOUR MOTHER AGREES!”

His son was gaping at him in shock and some panic at the threat of losing his position as heir.

“I DON’T SLAY KIN, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T CLAIM YOU’RE MY BASTARD.”

“Fath-“

“SHUT UP, BOY!” Steffon shouted to silence Robert. “AS OF RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE MY BASTARD TO ME, YOUR MOTHER, AND STANNIS IS MY HEIR. IN FOUR YEARS, STANNIS WILL BE A MAN GROWN AND IF YOU HAVEN’T PROVEN YOURSELF TO ME BY THEN, HE WILL SUCCEED ME AS THE LORD PARAMOUNT OF THE STORMLANDS, AND YOU WILL OFFICIALLY BECOME MY BASTARD!”

Robert grasped the trunk of a tree and was wordless as he stared at his father. Steffon was catching his breath from all the shouting and watched as Robert shook his head in denial. “You can’t do this, Father. Please…”

Instead of words of promise, his son had begged for Steffon to go back on his word. The embers within the Stormlands Paramount sparked back to life. “I CAN’T? I DAMN WELL CAN, ROBERT! I ALMOST HAD LYANNA STARK BETROTHED TO YOU! LORD STARK HEARD EVERYTHING YOU SAID, AS DID I! WHAT DO YOU THINK HE WILL DO ABOUT A BETROTHAL NOW?! REFUSE, YOU FOOL.”

That piece of information appeared to surprise his son. Robert seemed rather disappointed to learn it hadn’t gone through.

Steffon rarely raged and for the most part, had released enough to calm himself down. There was no longer an urge to shout, but getting the message through to Robert seemed to work this way. “STANNIS WILL BE MY HEIR, AND YOU MY BASTARD. AND I’LL MAKE IT OFFICIAL IN FOUR YEARS IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER! TO THE SEVEN HELLS WITH THE ESTERMONT’S REACTION! STANNIS IS STAYING HERE, YOU’RE RETURNING TO STORM’S END! Now get inside and not a word!”

Watching his son leave the clearing dejectedly and with shock, Steffon watched the surroundings as he followed to make sure Robert would get inside safely. The lord paramount still had rolling emotions after finally getting a chance to straighten out his son, but that didn’t mean he would risk his son’s life with neglect of caution.

After five minutes of shadowing his son, Steffon had returned to the Gates of the Moon and didn’t tarry in going to Jon to inform him of what had been decided between Steffon and his wife, Cassana. It took a while to locate Jon, who he found praying to the Mother in the sept after walking away from the statue for the Stranger.

Steffon’s gait must have been loud because Jon turned to look in Steffon’s direction before rising to his feet. “Steffon, you didn’t interrupt, I hadn’t begun with the Mother yet. What’s on your mind?”

He sighed and glanced at the Father, hoping he had doled out the right punishment to Robert. “I’ll keep this short, Jon. It’s my sons, Robert and Stannis. I’m finding it ideal to have Stannis in your guardianship instead of Robert for the foreseeable future. Stannis needs to be around other boys of an age who aren’t his domineering brother. He has a mind for duty, but his stern mannerisms won’t make him a likeable vassal lord. If he is to help his brother, he needs to be a lord men will follow, but being around Robert in the Vale won’t help him improve.”

Jon was looking at Steffon for a moment in thought and nodded his consent. “Very well, Steffon. Eddard is a pleasant boy and will no doubt help Stannis open up to others. I have noticed he doesn’t talk to others unless spoken to most of the time. If that is what you wish, Steffon, so be it. No matter the reason.”

“Thank you, Jon. I shall leave you to your prayers,” Steffon replied gratefully and leaving when the man nodded, no doubt kneeling before the Mother for his prayer to her.

Walking the halls until he found a quiet place where few ventured, Steffon dropped into the seat within a chamber and pulled a note out of his pocket. He’d found it in the pocket of his Baratheon embroidered doublet this morning. The same one he’d worn to the wedding and feast.

_Steffon Baratheon,_

_It’s no doubt become apparent to you that the king is resentful and jealous of Tywin Lannister for his successes as Hand of the King, be your knowledge from the mouth of Lord Tywin Lannister or the king’s behaviour._

_As a result, the king will turn to another for favours. Another of rank, repute, and friendship. You, Steffon of House Baratheon._

_With the recent increase in betrothals and weddings, as well as the lack of a daughter, the king will likely seek a bride for Rhaegar Targaryen. He will desire one from another land with the blood of Valyria, to keep the blood of House Targaryen pure Valyrian._

_If he requests this of you soon or in a few years, House Baratheon will need someone to watch over and manage affairs in the Stormlands in your absence._

_Who would that be?_

 

Steffon had no idea who the writer was other than being female. Female or not, they had a point. Rhaella had not produced a living daughter for Rhaegar to marry, and the most accessible Westerosi with Valyrian blood was now an Arryn. It was long believed that the Daynes had the blood of Valryia’s ancestors, but Ashara was betrothed to House Stark, and the youngest of House Dayne.

What the writer suggested was believable. The Targaryens had been intermarrying since the beginning with mayhaps one or two generations of marrying a Westerosi house instead. From personal experience of knowing King Aerys II, Steffon felt that the king would desire to find blood of Valyria for his son to marry; and as a result, the need of someone to find said bride.

After the destructive behaviour of Robert, Steffon was reluctant to leave the Stormlands in his hands should the king order Steffon to find Rhaegar a bride. Stannis wasn’t ready for such responsibilities yet, which left needing Cassana to remain in Westeros and being a guiding hand for Stannis or manage the lands herself until Stannis was of age.

If the king made the request, Cassana would remain here. He won’t leave the Stormlands in the hands of either an inexperienced boy or an immature one.

In his youth, Tywin, Aerys, and Steffon had been friends. Things between Tywin and Aerys were strained to put it mildly, whereas no such problems existed between Aerys and Steffon.

It was a believable prediction based on information that most people knew.

_I’ll keep the note until I see a fire to burn it in. Concerning Cassana about a reasonable message isn’t something I need right now, but I won’t forget the content. It’s valid and probable._

 

JAIME LANNISTER

Inside his uncle’s bedchamber, Jaime was sitting on a chair while Uncle stood in front of him with an expression of displeasure on his face. Jaime hoped that the displeasure was about anything he did because the only time that Jaime had done anything possibly wrong was the time he’d reacted to Robert Baratheon’s offensive jape about bedding Sansa had she been a woman grown.

Japing about bedding someone else’s betrothed was equal to talking about her as if she was a common whore and not a lady.

“Jaime,” his uncle began calmly. “I can understand your angry outburst about Robert Baratheon’s insulting disregard for Lady Sansa, but your behaviour was not that of a dignified lord,” Uncle Gery told him firmly. “You are to be the Warden of the West when the time comes and such explosive responses to a slight won’t be acceptable,” he reminded Jaime.

“Uncle, what would you have done? Or Father? I can’t stand there and let someone insult my betrothed; that will look weak,” Jaime asked in defence, wanting to know how to be a lord and stand up to those who wrong the people he cares about.

Uncle Gerion slightly shook his head from where he stood. “Not quite, Jaime. Being a man with dignity and not letting words make you become enraged is a show of strength. The king insults your father on a near-daily basis, and your grandfather was mocked openly, so my brother developed that strength out of necessity. Your father can’t respond because Aerys Targaryen is the king, however, your father ignores the insults and taunts from the king. And the result? Your father has more respect from the court than the king. Few insult or taunt your father unless ordered to do so. Those that do of their own initiative to curry favour with the king quickly come to regret it; he doesn't shout or immediately respond, giving them time to regret speaking in the first place.”

Jaime watched his uncle for a moment and repeated back what he understood. “So not reacting angry is the better choice? I’m supposed to stare at them instead? What about defending the honour of my family?”

“Correct, Jaime. You will be a person who has good control of their emotions; flying into a rage will not make a person be more respectful towards you or House Lannister,” Uncle Gery told him, sitting down on the end of the bed. “To defend your family, react with patience and self-control; when you’ve said everything that’s important, leave so there’s no chance of an argument starting.”

“This is so complicated,” Jaime remarked, still wondering what Uncle Gery or Father would have done in Jaime’s place. “What about Robert Baratheon? What should I have done?”

Uncle Gery leaned forward and pulled Jaime’s chair closer. “Walk into the chamber, look him in the eyes and ask your question ‘What did you say?’ in a strong but controlled tone, Jaime. Yours was too raged to be respected or for Robert Baratheon to regret making the comment. Resorting to promising an injury is not the way of a respected lord, Jaime. And once you made your point, leave the chamber to make it clear that the discussion is over.”

Nodding within the seat, Jaime didn’t understand by patience after someone said something was part of being a good lord, but Uncle Gery was being serious, unlike the japes he often made. “I’ll do my best, Uncle,” he promised.

“That’s what you will need when you go to King’s Landing, Jaime. Especially being near the king. King Aerys will see you as a target and a way to show power to your father. Patient and controlled behaviour near the king, and no threats will be important at King’s Landing,” his uncle seriously repeated. “And don’t think I didn’t see your smirk yesterday, Nephew. Personally, I think Robert Baratheon deserved it, but in the capital, it’s unwise to smirk unless a jape was funny.”

Jaime lifted a hand into his hair and hear Uncle Gery chuckle.

“I know it’s a lot to learn, Jaime. That’s why you’ll be leaving this castle in a sennight instead of on the morrow like the Starks and Tully going to Winterfell.”

“I’ll try, Uncle,” he told Uncle Gery.

“That’s all I can ask of you, Jaime. Above all when you go to King’s Landing, listen to your father. He’s been there for years and knows how to navigate the royal court and the dangers of it.”

Nodding, Jaime saw his uncle rise from the end of the bed before squeezing Jaime’s shoulder once.

In silent question, Jaime looked to Uncle Gery for an explanation for that. “Someone here wishes to talk to you, Jaime.”

“Who?”

That question was answered for him by his uncle opening the chamber door for Eddard Stark and nodding to Jaime before leaving his own bedchambers.

Remembering what his uncle said, Jaime did his best to be the lordling he needed to be. “Ned,” he said politely, wondering where this was going to go.

Eddard squared his shoulders and looked Jaime in the eyes like a man with a task to fulfil. “Jaime, what I said the other day about not agreeing with Robert was the truth. It was wrong of him to say such things. Can you forgive me for not punching Robert that day after what he said about Lady Sansa?”

Jaime wasn’t very happy that Robert didn’t get the punch, but after listening to Uncle Gery about being the better man and acting like a lord with dignity, he nodded to Ned.

The older boy’s body lost the stiffness in the shoulders and a moment later he spoke. “Thank you, Jaime. It was a surprise being asked to punch my friend; talking rudely or not.”

“I suppose it is,” Jaime replied, looking around the chamber a little, feeling odd as having this conversation. “A lord doesn’t do those things, so you did the right thing. I…I was just _so_ mad at him,” he explained, hoping this awkward moment would be over soon.

Ned cleared his throat and half turned towards the door. “Would you have a spar with me? Benjen wants to see what you can do.”

“Absolutely.”

It was shortly afterwards that Jaime and Ned were making their way towards the barracks.

 

SANSA STARK

Sitting in the godswood thinking about what her uncle had told her yesterday. Sansa realised that if all she ever spent her time doing was stress and worry, that it will push her in the direction of paranoia.

And she didn't want that for herself.

In Riverrun, she’d gotten used to having control of most thing around her, but when she left for the Westerlands after becoming Jaime’s betrothed she’d lost some of that control but not all thanks to knowledge of dirty secrets. Coming here to the Vale for Elia’s wedding was akin to opening her eyes and seeing that beyond Riverrun she did not have the sway she’d gotten used to back at home.

Here in the Vale, Sansa witnessed a good friend get married to a seemingly good man, but into a dangerous situation. One where Sansa could do nothing but have faith that Elia would know how to handle herself now that she was the future Lady Arryn; a lady that the most vocal vassals would make their poor opinions of her known.

_Dorne is looked down upon, regardless of royalty; I won’t deny it. The vassals are no doubt angry none of their daughters were chosen to marry Elbert._

Yesterday had a few common aspects to the Purple Wedding.

There was the unwanted royalty; Joffrey and Elia. Lady Olenna not desiring Joffrey for her granddaughter; the Vale vassals not desiring Elia to be chosen over their daughters.

Both events were lavish and busy, Elbert’s less so, and easy to lose sight of what someone was doing. Lady Olenna at some point had managed to slip the poison into Joffrey’s wine. Someone else such as Lady Alys Waynwood could have done the same to Elia. If Lord Arryn doesn’t have a son, and Elbert doesn’t have children with Elia, then the ruling seat would go to Lady Alys’ daughters by default as the only Arryn by blood with children.

Both sets of bride and groom had wanted the marriage. A factor that often in Sansa’s past resulted in death. Robb married Jeyne Westerling for love and died. Joffrey seemed happy to marry Margaery and died.

Multiple houses of importance had been present. The Great Houses had at least one person present with the exception of the Targaryens and Tyrells.  Joffrey’s wedding didn’t have every Great House present either with the Baratheons absent instead of the Tyrells.

Simply said, history had put Sansa on edge with fear of what could happen. Something she hadn’t considered when introducing Elia to the Arryns at the tourney. A danger she potentially had placed Elia in without realising it.

In the end, nothing had happened to Elia which greatly relieved Sansa.

Outside of Riverrun, Sansa had to acknowledge she could only give things a nudge in the direction she wanted, not having large amounts of control over what happens.

Dropping inconspicuous hints with her knowledge of the past was all she could do in this era. The idea of embracing this second chance she been given to live a life was something she wasn’t sure how to do.

_How to do you live calmly when there is so much information you know about the current world?_

_And yet so much has changed already and it hasn’t been a year since I returned._

To not need to worry was a concept that Sansa hadn’t dwelled with since she’d left Winterfell as a child. Ever since Darry, where Lady was slain by Eddard Stark, life had been a continuous rise and fall of worry and misery.

Not to mention she needed to begin working against the Others soon, but it won’t be the Others that she’ll have to stop. The Others were merely puppets of a bitter faction of a different species entirely. Her foe was at The Isle of Faces using their powers to control the species they’d crafted millennia ago.

That was her suspicions. Suspicions was all she had.

Bran had said little about the Others besides their approach upon his return, but that small piece of information, a location and magic, was all he’d said about them.

From what Sansa knew from history, the weather of this time was originally still winter and an unrelenting one. However, when she arrived at Riverrun winter was beginning to thaw. She suspected that the False Spring during the Tourney of Harrenhal was influenced; by who or what, she didn’t know but suspected that the chill the Others brought with them was involved, but how?

One thing was first certain though. Something has changed already.

Who and how; she did not know.

She will need to go to the Isle of Faces soon and with support, for she has never been there or known much about the place.

Anything could be there.

Walking inside and wandering along the halls, Sansa quietly thinks about how anxious she had been at the wedding. She had truly feared for Elia; too much, unfortunately, because Jaime had noticed and soon after her uncle heard part of their conversation before scolding her about how flimsy her reason for worry had been.

She couldn’t very well tell him about the future which caused all of her restlessness.

Approaching the stables, Sansa walked over to the horses and began petting one that looked friendly enough.

She missed Grey Grace, who was at Riverrun, and wished that the Vale of Arryn wasn’t dangerous to ride alone or in a small party. The terrain was a treacherous thing, and where it wasn’t risky there were prime locations for the tribesmen to live, hunt and ambush.

To say she hadn’t desired to ride the horse Mother had given her and remember the best memories of the two of them would be a lie. Mother had taken her into her heart and cared for Sansa as though she was one of her true daughters; even told Westeros that Sansa was one of her daughters.

The yearning for another moment of Mother’s love was something she knew she would never have. And it pained her to acknowledge that. Bringing out the name necklace Mother had given her before she died made Sansa wish to weep upon looking at it. She would never stop wearing it in favour of another jewel. Delivering a small kiss to it, Sansa released her grip and felt the weight of it back on her chest.

_I love you, Mother._

Petting the horse within the stall, Sansa didn’t hold back the tears as she silently wept her dead mother; a person that would never leave her heart.

_If I shed everything that makes me who I am, I will become a husk as Arya did. And I am not ashamed of missing Mother, and now is a good time to weep for her. No one is here to be upset at the sight of my tears._

Wiping one eye, Sansa sighed and gave a sad smile.

_Elia and Princess Mariah were so happy yesterday; I wasn’t going to ruin their morning._

Happy for her friend, Sansa was remembering the wedding and feast that followed; the cheerful expressions on Elia’s face through it all.

But Sansa’s memories were interrupted by the talk of a vassal lord and servant. “Has the letter been sent?” a male voice of authority questioned with a Braavosi accent.

_Petyr Baelish’s father?_

“Aye, milord. To Oldtown, as ordered,” the male servant replied obediently.

“Thank you, Donnel. The Lion of Lannister is a powerful man, but I will bring my son back.”

_Seven Hells! Bronze Yohn must have gotten deep in his cups and talked last night. No, no, no, not Petyr in the Vale! He’ll harm Elia, I know it._

“Lord Grafton of Gulltown said he’s considered your request last night and will grant it, milord.”

There was a pleased sigh. “That’s good news. One moon and I will see Petyr. In another moon, I’ll bring him home,” Lord Baelish mostly muttered and sighed. “Why do you get yourself into these positions, Petyr?”

_Oh, gods…_

Remaining quiet within her stall, Sansa heard the sound of horseshoes on rock leave the stables and fade. Once sure there was no one nearby, Sansa hurried over to the main doorway and watched Lord Baelish was leaving the Gates of the Moon with the company of his servant and a small force.

The father mayhaps be gone from the castle, but it didn’t mean that the danger of Petyr Baelish was over; in two moons, with good weather, Sansa’s foe would be back to manipulating people to do his bidding while they all thought the idea was theirs.

Petyr and Elia living in the same kingdom was terrifying, and Sansa wanted – no needed – to warn Elia about the type of boy Petyr was. To leave her here in the Vale without an awareness of the danger would put her in a vulnerable position. She already had the vassal lords’ displeasure to handle, but the right prodding from Petyr could escalate the situation quite quickly.

Elia would be safe for two moons at least, but after that Petyr will start his scheming. In the Eyrie as Alayne, Sansa recalled how Petyr used even the smallest of events to advance his position at every turn. Corbray within the Lord Declarants had worked in Petyr’s favour that gave him extended control in the Vale.

The Lord Declarants had been a group of authority established after Petyr had worked his way up to become the Lord Protector of the Vale. Yohn Royce was a part of that group and opposed against Petyr’s gaining of power quite vocally last time.

This time, Petyr was an experienced man of manipulation in the body of a boy; seemingly harmless. Much like Sansa, the future was also in his hands and will shape in accordance with the way he uses his knowledge of people and the past to come.

_I can’t look after Westeros on my own. Elia has to know the truth; the truth about me, at least a little of the full truth. I must. There’s no other way._

Leaving the stables with the calm and collected manner of a lady, Sansa searched the castle for Elia and eventually found her talking to Oberyn quietly on a wide balcony. When Sansa got closer, Oberyn glanced over his shoulder, which also drew the attention of Elia. “Have you been avoiding me, Sansa? Hiding amongst the other ladies?” he japed, and once she was close he took her hand and lowered his lips to her knuckles. “Fear not, for I know you weren’t. You were helping my sister and for that I am grateful.”

Elia smiled with amusement when she glanced at Oberyn but looked to Sansa soon after. “I thought you would be with Jaime Lannister, Sansa,” she commented with curiosity. “You part for Winterfell on the morrow if the words are true.”

“They are and I would be, Elia, but is there a place where we may speak?” she asked, knowing a chamber that would be appropriate if necessary. “All of us?” she specified, turning to Oberyn for a moment as she spoke.

“My chamber,” Oberyn answered confidently. “It will not be strange for brother and sister to seek time together privately before I leave in a sennight.”

An image of a very different pair appeared in her mind when he said that, but Sansa pushed it aside for such a thing would never be in this life. Nodding, she followed Oberyn a short distance to his bedchamber, which appeared to be well-furnished, compared to her own. Mayhaps a measure of courtesy from the Arryn family, to show a higher regard for members of the House they joined than wedding guests.

Elia was the last to enter to the chamber and closed to door behind herself, but faltered when her eyes met Sansa’s, who’d begun to pace along the rug near the unlit fireplace. Sansa paused and saw her hand slide to the bolt slowly, to which Sansa nodded and prompting Elia to lock the door.

“Sansa,” Oberyn said from the bed, drawing her attention there and saw him sitting on the end with curiosity. “It’s safe to speak freely here. What’s the matter? I’ve never seen you so troubled.”

Turning her body towards him, Sansa took a breath and squared her shoulders when Elia joined her brother on the end of the bed. “I’m not sure how to begin,” she admitted nervously.

The pair looked to one another and Elia spoke. “Take your time, Sansa. Gather your thoughts and tell us.” Nodding to Elia in response, Sansa released a breath as she struggled to find a starting point that would grip their attention. “Take your time,” Elia repeated gently from beside Oberyn.

Mentally she was searching for the best place to start and nodded when she found one. Turning her eyes to Oberyn she began this nerve-racking conversation she must have. “Oberyn,” she addressed and saw his eyes meet hers. “The first time you saw me, I was but a dressmaker,” she began slowly, eyes fixed on Oberyn. “And yet, I knew your name and station before you said who you were,” she reminded him gently and witnessed his intrigue rise. “Strange, is it not?”

Elia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Truly?”

Oberyn nodded. “Indeed. The first and only time I had been in Braavos,” he agreed, pouring some wine and taking a sip. “What of it, Sansa? I’ve always been curious, but why mention it?”

She didn’t let it redirect her discussion; the admission needed to be done and cleanly. “How could I have identified you on sight when that was our first meeting?”

“It’s nearly impossible,” Elia answered the rhetorical question. “You’re bringing this up for a reason, Sansa. What is it?”

Her breath was shaky. The moment she says it there will be no going back.

_Not yet. That one seed won’t be enough._

“Elia,” Sansa said, turning her eyes to the new Arryn. “We’re good friends who understand each other, yet I’m half your age,” she pointed out gently. “Gods, you commissioned this bracelet for me,” Sansa added, lifting her wrist for the pair of them to see; Oberyn glancing at it before looking back to Sansa.

Elia had an amused smile while gazing at the bracelet for a moment, then her smile waned when her eyes met Sansa’s. “An unusual friendship, but one I don’t regret,” the woman spoke kindly in a reassuring tone. “Yes, I feel as though you understand me more than you should for your age, and it only makes you a better friend. However, I don’t see why you need to speak of these oddities. Why bring them into the light?”

Taking a breath, Sansa prepared herself. “Because I must,” Sansa answered, watching the confused reactions of them both.

_Oh Gods, I can’t do it._

_I can’t tell them the truth about me._

_About my past. They must never know.  
_

Closing her eyes for a second, Sansa redirected her intentions to just Petyr. “There is a boy who will be a danger to you, Elia. And he’s returning from Oldtown to the Vale in two moons at the earliest. I learnt of his intended return not an hour ago.”

Oberyn was immediately on his guard. “Who?” he demanded, an arm snaking around Elia’s waist protectively. “Leave nothing out, Sansa.”

“Petyr Baelish. He’s like me; older mind and knowledgeable,” she told them both. “He’s eight, but he’s caused great trouble already. Once he decides what he wants he will stop at nothing until he has it. Whatever it takes to gain power over other people, he will do it.” Sansa explained, but they needed to realise what he was capable of. “He will start by talking to vassal lords he sees about Elia not being a Valewoman, to stir discontent until someone decides to act,” she told Oberyn and saw Elia become uneasy.

“Act?” Oberyn repeated heatedly with darkened eyes.

“In what way, I do not know, but dosing Elia with moon tea at the very least. He relishes in causing chaos.”

“Sansa,” Elia spoke clearly. “Are you certain about this? How can you be sure?”

She wished that this wasn’t the truth, but discounting the very likely odds of Petyr doing such things wasn’t worth Elia getting harmed.

“Last time he wanted something, he wanted my betrothal broken,” she divulged the Dornish siblings. “So Petyr forged a letter using Lord Lannister’s name and that letter resulted in one of my father’s conditions being breached by Cersei at the tourney. Hadn’t I argued with my uncle, Jaime would no longer be my betrothed. Petyr used Cersei to do his bidding and I swear he won’t hesitate to manipulate another person for his bidding.”

Oberyn was running his thumb on Elia’s shoulder while his sister spoke. “Well…that was uncomfortable to hear, but you’ve warned us before he has had a chance to do anything, Sansa. We know to be careful,” Elia said to Sansa, before turning to Oberyn. “I needn’t ask if you intend to return, Oberyn.”

The prince shook his head. “I’ll return from Sunspear before two moons, Elia. You will never be left in danger by me, sister.”  

“I am sorry about this,” Sansa apologised genuinely, wishing she hadn’t had to impart such awful news. “I couldn’t leave you unaware of him.”

Rising from the bed, Elia walked over to Sansa and engulfed her in a hug, running her fingers through Sansa’s loose hair. “Don’t be sorry, Sansa. Caring for a friend’s safety is nothing to feel guilty from doing,” Elia reassured her while she held Sansa. “Worry not. I know it’s important that I produce a child for Elbert to sate the vassal lords and secure my place here. Mother has spoken to me already and suggested no wine. After what you’ve said about the Baelish boy, I will drink only water. It, after all, is best for a healthy babe.”

Sansa lightly squeezed Elia’s middle, who brushed her fingers through Sansa’s hair once more before releasing her.

“You have done what you can for me, Sansa. Enjoy your remaining time today with Jaime before you must go north on the morrow,” Elia suggested before sitting back down on the bed next to Oberyn.

Oberyn met Sansa’s eyes. “He’s sparring with Eddard Stark in the barracks, last I knew,” the prince provided. “Speaking of which, how about we practice your knives one last time in a moment before you leave for the Winterfell? It’s been a while,” he suggested.

Practice always seemed to make her mind feel happier for some reason, Gods knew why, so she nodded in agreement.

“I’ll see you soon, Sansa,” Oberyn told her.

Leaving Oberyn’s bedchamber, Sansa quickly made her way to her own and changed into a mummer’s gown for the spar. Breeches and a tunic would be ideal, but never had she practised in such a combination, for the use of a mummer’s gown was an easy way to look like a proper lady again afterwards. And when you think about it, she was always in a gown or real dress during a normal day.

Her training was to protect herself on a normal day, so getting used to doing everything in a mummer’s gown was her best choice. The skirt could be manoeuvred into a cloak with ease, which was her best possibility if something ever happened. Training in a proper dress was downright pointless, to be frank.

Heading down to the barracks, Sansa could hear some chatter in the background but didn’t have time to see who it was. The reason being that Oberyn was already there in the training square and waiting for her.

Not having a maid to get her out of her original dress had slowed her down, and if her eyes weren't fooling her he was still in the very clothes he’d been wearing when both of them were with Elia in his bedchamber.

Taking her place in the square so not to keep him waiting any longer, there was a hush of all chatter within the barracks but she didn’t let it take her attention away from the pretend threat in front of her; Oberyn. It was as though there’d been an agreed start because both of them were moving like water suddenly at the same time.

Using her freed legs to her full advantage, Sansa didn’t waste an opportunity when they came and dodged traps when Oberyn tried to fool her.

 

JAIME LANNISTER

Seated with Ned and Benjen Stark, Jaime was watching the knives spar between Oberyn and Sansa. Dressed in her strange gown that she had changed to breeches, cloak and bodice in only seconds, Sansa was fluidly moving in and out like a dangerous dancer. Armed with live knives and her eyes never leaving those of Oberyn.

He’d never seen her do this and from beside him, Ned and Benjen were watching the spar silently with the exception of gasps when it looked like either of them nearly got the other with their blades.

_Where in the Seven Hells had she practised this? Her movements were far too smooth to not have been practised._

_This is way more practise than Cersei using my sword at Casterly Rock._

Pondering the thought while paying close attention to the spar, Jaime couldn’t remember a good time for her to have practised enough to get this good. Mayhaps before she went to Casterly Rock, at which time Jaime was doing his best to avoid Cersei prior to the Starks coming to Riverrun. That was a long time ago.

Abandoning the question of practise, he watched with a critical eye on Sansa, but the shadow of someone entering the barracks caught his attention.

Robert Baratheon.

Resisting the urge to glare at him, so Jaime could be the better lord, he witnessed the expression of shock on the heir’s face and felt some satisfaction that Robert will likely think twice before talking about Sansa as though she was a whore again.

The Baratheon did not flee, but took a secluded seat to watch the knife spar still happening in the training square; strangely Stannis arrived shortly after and joined Jaime, Ned and Benjen, but didn’t say a word.

The intensified sound of steel on steel drew everyone’s attention and Jaime could see that the pace of the spar had quickened, taking away the chance for Sansa to stop her knives before they touched Oberyn’s. It was obvious that the prince was the more practised of the two, who never gave Sansa a scratch thanks to his fast reflexes and the ability to move his knives away from her body before anything happened.

Sansa was slower, as to be expected when a young girl fought an adult man, but she would be a good fighter in an unexpected situation. She had technique and fluidity, but enough speed to be a threat to someone attacking her inside a castle.

_She's good._

It continued for a minute or so before Sansa removed herself from the painted square and sheathed her knives, quickly re-lacing her cloak into a skirt.

Tempting it was for Jaime to go over there straight away, but it was clear that Oberyn was telling her something important as they both drank water. Both no doubt in need of refreshing themselves or at least just Sansa.

“That was awesome!” the youngest Stark exclaimed from beside Ned, who nodded in agreement with his little brother.

“I never would have guessed,” Ned admitted to Jaime. “I wonder if Ashara can do that?”

Jaime shrugged. “I suppose so,” he guessed, not knowing whether he was right or not. “Females can be the heir of a House in Dorne, so I imagine that they would protect themselves.”

“She had good form,” Stannis remarked before leaving the barracks.

_Well, that was strange._

To be fair though, Stannis had hardly said a word around the other boys, so mayhaps he was getting lonely?

Rising from his seat, Jaime went over to Sansa who was having a drink of water when he reached her. “That was pretty good, Sansa,” he complimented, causing her to jump in surprise.

Her eyes landed on the boys behind him and her tinged face flushed red. “Thank you, Jaime. I didn’t realise we’d had an audience,” she replied sounding a little uncomfortable.

“They thought you were good too,” he told Sansa, which made her smile. “Do you have a lot to do this afternoon?” he asked her since this was their last time to see one another until Sansa came to the capital.

“No, all of my things have been packed for travel and I’ll be saying farewells on the morrow.” Jaime saw her pause for a moment and look to him before speaking again. “I’ve heard much about the royal court from the people I’ve spoken with. Please be careful, Jaime.”

Taking her hand and giving it a squeeze yet not releasing it, Jaime nodded to her. “Of course. Uncle Gerion, probably Aunt Genna too, will be teaching me how to act there because the king doesn’t like my father for some reason.”

“I’m glad he will be preparing you,” she shared with him, walking in the direction of her bedchamber. “Will you write to me?” she asked hopefully. “Your training with Ser Arthur Dayne, and days in the court?” Sansa suggested to which Jaime nodded, glad that she would be interested in hearing about his sword craft with a renowned Kingsguard knight.

“I will, Sansa,” he promised. “Will you write back?”

“I will, Jaime. Hearing from you, even if it’s in writing, will make me feel better. I pray the king won’t demand you to be on the Kingsguard.”

Jaime stopped outside her door and stepped aside so she could go inside, but she didn’t do that immediately. “I won’t join it.”

She squeezed his hand. “If you ever need help, I’ll only be a raven, or once I’m in the capital only a few floors, away.”

“Thanks, Sansa.”


	43. The North

SANSA STARK

_Day 30, 5 th Moon, 276 AC_

Outside the stables with Cat and their uncle, Brynden, Sansa witnessed the Arryns emerge from the castle’s warmth; Lord Arryn without his wife Lady Rowena Arryn, but four others were present; Lady Waynwood, Lady Belmore, and lastly Ser Elbert with Elia happily by his side.

Feeling she should thank her host, Sansa kept that in mind as Lord Arryn approached her family. He shook hands with Uncle Brynden wordlessly nodding and turned to face the eldest daughters of Hoster Tully. “It was a pleasure to have the both of you here, my ladies.”

As one, Catelyn and Sansa curtsied before the Warden of the East. “Thank you, my lord,” they replied in unison as they’d been taught by Mother. Catelyn then spoke first her comment. “The wedding was a beautiful affair, my lord, and I was glad to be representing House Tully when Ser Elbert was wed to Princess Elia.”

“Kind words, Lady Catelyn, and you didn’t shame your house during your stay,” Lord Arryn thanked Catelyn, and Sansa took that as her cue.

She noticed that Lady Arryn hadn’t made an appearance, and she suspected that said woman had died. To say anything about that though would only make her suspicious, so Sansa kept to a polite farewell. “It was a pleasure to get to know House Arryn, my lord. And the Gates of the Moon was a delight to see, Lord Arryn,” she told him clearly. “I pray the gods will favour you and House Arryn.”

“Alike your sister, my lady, you were a pleasure to host for the wedding of my nephew,” he replied, which prompted Catelyn and Sansa to curtsy once more together.

Nodding to all of three of them, Lord Jon Arryn moved on to the Starks for farewells.

They weren’t alone for long, because Lady Baratheon approached Sansa and took her aside from the others of her family. “Lady Sansa, I hope you enjoyed the wedding of Ser Elbert and Lady Elia,” she wished Sansa softly.

Being older than she physically was, Sansa picked up on what Lady Cassana intended to take this conversation, but Sansa decided that she didn’t particularly fancy talking about Robert’s jape of bedding her. “Everything was beautiful, my lady. I will be getting married one day and I hope mine is a happy as that one.”

That comment had no doubt taken Lady Baratheon in the absolutely opposite direction she’d wanted to go with this conversation. “That’s good to hear, Lady Sansa, and mayhaps even happen for you. Since seeing you at the tourney, it was clear to anyone that Jaime Lannister is a boy of good morals and has a strong friendship with you already.”

“Thank you, Lady Baratheon,” Sansa spoke as she dipped into a short curtsy.

In response, Lady Baratheon smiled to Sansa warmly and walked over to Lord Baratheon with who stood Robert, instead of Stannis. An interesting oddity indeed, making her curious as to why Stannis wasn’t near the wheelhouse to leave when his older brother was.

Robert made eye contact with Sansa, but was quick to look uncomfortable and away. No doubt Lord Baratheon had _spoken_ to Robert about talking of bedding girls and mentioning Sansa Tully. Assuming that was all, she turned her attention to the people that deserved it more.

Standing next to his uncle Ser Gerion was Jaime, who was going to be staying here in the Vale for a time before making way to King’s Landing. So Jaime would know how to act there, he’d told her yesterday. Seeing the opportunity, Jaime approached her with a smile that spoke of friendship. “Looking forward to going north?” he asked her, glancing at Cat and Uncle Brynden for a moment.

Internally there was a very sentimental reason for her interest in going back to the North after all these years, but Jaime couldn’t know what that was.

She used a genuine answer that wouldn’t seem odd. “It seems like every kingdom has its own unique traditions, and truly, Jaime? I want to see the direwolf the Starks are talking about,” she replied honestly.

“Are direwolves as big as they say?” he asked with much interest.

She’d never seen a full-size direwolf besides Ghost, for Nymeria never returned to Winterfell instead of abandoning a wolf pack Arya mentioned. Shaggydog and Summer were stories for another time. “Possibly,” she said with uncertainty. “Direwolves haven’t been seen since the Winter Kings, they could have evolved with time. Mayhaps, Jaime.”

_Is Lady truly as big as a horse?_

She was pulled from her wandering by Jaime’s voice. “Tell me in a letter, okay?”

“And a drawing,” she promised him. “Well, I’ll try to at least, but the Starks say their direwolf is calm and patient. So mayhaps I’ll manage a good one.”

Jaime chuckled with a glint in his deep green eyes. “Knowing you, Sansa,” he began with a grin. “You will get a drawing, but describing it in a letter will be enough for me if you can’t.”

“I’ll do my best, and I want to have a sketch to show Father when I return to Riverrun. But enough about me,” she said and saw the way he became curious. “You will thrive with Ser Arthur Dayne as his squire, Jaime. I know you will.”

An excited expression appeared on his face at the mention of the Kingsguard member and renowned knight. “I can’t wait to be his squire. Ser Arthur Dayne is the best and he’s only seventeen. He almost won my father’s tourney,” Jaime responded with enthusiasm but paused for a second. “You think I’ll thrive?”

“Yes.”

His already present smile split into a larger one and the grin showed his white teeth. “You really do believe in me,” he commented quietly. “Thank you, Sansa. Have fun in Winterfell, okay?”

Taking a step forward, Sansa embraced him in a hug. “I do, Jaime. And I will. I truly want to see the direwolf and see the ways of the North,” she whispered in his ear and stepped out of the hug. Tempted she was to ask Jaime to be careful around the royal court, but she’d mentioned it yesterday after her knife spar with Oberyn.

And she didn’t want to damper the moment between them.

Jaime’s smile made her smile, he looked so happy. “Sansa…farewell, but we will see each other again.”

“We will,” she repeated back.

Dropping into a curtsy before her betrothed, Sansa saw the way that he just shook his head before going back to Ser Gerion; a smile still in place when he nodded to her.

Approaching the Martell family and Ashara but no Doran, who was in Sunspear, Sansa curtsied before Princess Mariah and Prince Oberyn; Elia having wandered over from Elbert’s side. “My Princess, My Prince, and my ladies,” Sansa said to the four of them, all of whom nodded back with small smiles. “It was a pleasure to meet you, and witness the marriage of Lady Elia to Ser Elbert,” she continued before turning to Elia. “My lady, you were so happy from the eve of your wedding. I pray the gods will grant you continued happiness here with your husband.”

Elia inclined her head and gave Sansa a smile. “Lady Sansa, you were a great companion in the sewing circles and assisting me to ready for the day. Your caring heart is one that shall always be welcome here at the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie. Until we meet again, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa understood that showing too strong of a friendship was risky business in front of the other Great Houses, and smiled to Elia in return.

Princess Mariah was next and inclined her head as well. “And in Sunspear, Lady Sansa,” the Ruling Princess added to Elia’s words.

Ashara smiled to Sansa. "It's been a pleasure learning more about you, Lady Sansa. Safe travels to Winterfell."

"Thank you, my lady. I wish you the same for Starfall."

Oberyn was a little less formal than his mother and sister. “Enjoy your stay in the North, Sansa. Tell me what it is like because that kingdom is too cold for my tastes,” he said with a relaxed smile.  “A craven, am I not?” he japed quietly to which she laughed.

“You? The Red Viper?” I don’t think so,” she replied, making all four of them chuckle, but before long she had to return to her uncle’s side.

Soon after, the majority of the party going north was mounting onto horses with Corbray embossed saddles, the members of House Baratheon lingering near their wheelhouse; all except Stannis who was standing with the heir of House Arryn.

Clearly, he was not going home.

_And yet Robert Baratheon was?_

It was an interesting line of thought. For what reason would House Baratheon benefit from Stannis staying here under the care of Lord Arryn, while the eldest brother, Robert, was returning to the Stormlands?

She was jolted out of her thoughts when the Baratheon wheelhouse left through the southern gate while the party going to Winterfell passed through the northern one.

Sansa would have contemplated it more, but Jaime was standing on the battlements possibly watching her leave. Their riding was gruelling as the party rode along the valley floor in a straight line for Heart’s Home, where House Corbray resided a couple of days away.

 

_Day 7, 6 th Moon, 276 AC_

The past sennight had been a hasty journey through the Vale of Arryn on horseback to Heart’s Home, the castle of House Corbray, where the Stark vessel had been docked during Lord Stark’s travel for Elia’s and Ser Elbert’s wedding.

Sansa has spent much of the time on deck watching the land mass in the distance change from the rocky grey of the Vale, to the green and white of the Three Sisters, and eventually to predominantly white as they approached White Harbour.

By the day they’d grown closer and closer to the North, their intended destination, but for Sansa’s heart, she didn’t know what it would mean.

_The North_

_To Winterfell_

_And…to Lady_

_Please, Lady, don’t be a dream._

Walking along the deck, she could see hints of the last place she had seen Jon. She could see with her mind’s eye just how much Arya had begged as she fought against the drug their brother had slipped them both.

The memory of those two made Sansa shed a tear now that she was back where she’d last seen her brother and the spirit of her sister for the last time. Wiping the tear from sight, Sansa watched the harbour become a hive of activity at the sound of Lord Stark blowing his horn in four short bursts.

Some of the smallfolk hastened to their horses and were riding down the road which joined up with the King’s Road. The same road which had significantly less snow than the rest of the land of the harbour and near it was a horse-drawn plough with smallfolk untying two horses from it.

It would take some time for the Stark ship to make port, and from their current position, Sansa couldn’t see the details of the people milling around the harbour except for one man who stood out from the rest.

A large man in the colours of House Manderly was slowly walking in the direction of the ocean, turning and boisterously yelling towards people close to the building that Sansa knew what the home of House Manderly. Lord Manderly had been in his sixties when she’d last seen him, so logically it was understandable that he would still be the current lord in this time. Unlike the future, he wasn’t yet too fat to walk, but nonetheless, he was a rather big man.

A fat, loud man who played on his appearance to mislead people into a false sense of interacting with a fool, while in actuality Sansa knew he was a shrewd one. She’d been wary of him when she met him before because she’d learnt in King’s Landing and the Eyrie that appearances weren’t everything. Much like Tyrion Lannister not being the monster his disfigurement made him out to be. The title of ‘monster’ belonged to Joffrey, not Tyrion.

The _Swift Wolf_ took a little while to make port, but once it was docked Lord Manderly was there and waiting for his liege lord.

“My Lord Stark,” the fat vassal lord addressed. “It appears your fine vessel has lived up to its name. Would you care for some refreshments while I send a servant to inform the cook of your arrival?” Lord Manderly cheerily offered.

“An appreciated gesture, Lord Manderly, but Lady Stark and I have taken measures to ensure a swift return to Winterfell,” Rickard Stark declined while the ship’s crew were taking bags to a pair of wheelhouses near the road ploughed free of snow.

“Indeed you have, Lord Stark. I was surprised by the influx of smallfolk, but they claimed Lady Stark gave them a task to do when you returned.”

Watching from the side, Sansa saw Rickard nod with no expression of surprise. “I can speak with you briefly, Manderly, but soon I must be on my way.”

The two Northmen approached a stable while Ned and Benjen were making for the wheelhouses they would be travelling in. It didn’t take an expert to understand what the plan for the journey was; the smooth ground with minimal snow thanks to the smallfolk, the wheelhouses the ship’s crew was putting the bagged possessions of Stark and Tully into.

Taking the initiative, she was about to make for the wheelhouses when she noticed that Catelyn was looking around for something and paused with a subtle frown. “Cat? What’s the matter?”

“I wished to thank the Smith for our safe sailing, sister,” Catelyn replied, prompting Sansa to glance towards Uncle Brynden who approached the pair of them.

“Little Cat,” Uncle Brynden said gently. “You won’t find any septs in the North, sweetling. It is not their way,” he spoke without being loud. “The only gods followed here are the Old Gods, who the Houses pray to within their godswoods.”

“Uncle, what do I do? I’ve never followed them.”

Brynden Tully took the hands of Cat within his own and looked her in the eyes. “Catelyn, you’re betrothed to the future Warden of the North. A Lady Stark who doesn’t follow the way of the North will have a difficult time being respected by the vassal houses.”

“I’ve always followed the Seven.”

Sansa could see that this was going to be a circular conversation and wanted to nip trouble in the bud. “Cat, those of the Faith pray to statues indoors representing a different part of the gods, while Northerners say all their prayers to a weirwood in their godswood. It might be hard to change to the Northern ways, but things will be even harder for you if the lords see you don’t live as they do. Mayhaps try saying your thanks in a godswood and see if you can do it,” Sansa suggested, aware that religion was an important part to Catelyn, but the Faith didn’t exist here in the North. “I’ll go with you and do it too. Ned told me how it is done in the North.”

Nodding to Sansa reluctantly, Cat followed Sansa’s lead to the weirwoods that could be seen clustered on the edge of White Harbour where the smallfolk would say their prayers.

The sight of two girls drew the attention of some smallfolk, but they didn’t seem overly interested in them as Cat walked with Sansa towards the godswood used by the people of White Harbour.

“Sansa, is this truly necessary?”

Sansa resisted the urge to sigh; this matter of praying like a Northerner would be an uphill climb when it came to Cat. “If I prayed like a Northerner in the Westerlands and the vassals knew it, I won’t be accepted as the wife of their liege lord, will I?” she said to her sister rhetorically. “It is, Catelyn. Any lady needs to be a part of the people she lives amongst if they are to respect her and her position.”

_Mayhaps add some way for her to warm up to the idea._

“Think of it this way. When you kneel or sit for your prayer before the weirwood, imagine in your mind which god of the Faith you want to pray to and say their name in your thoughts. Try that.”

It wasn’t too long before they were amongst the weirwoods to pray to; Sansa demonstrating how it is done and Catelyn slowly copying her. Once Catelyn was positioned on her knees before the red-leafed tree, Sansa spoke as she rested her hands in her lap. “This is what Ned showed me; close your eyes and say your prayer in your mind or with your voice. The Starks do it silently most of the time.”

“I’ll try.”

Slipping her eyes closed, Sansa replied once. “As am I.”

Kneeling before the heart tree with her eyes closed and head bowed, Sansa prayed that her belief that Lady was alive was true. It would break her heart if she was to learn that the Direwolf of Winterfell, that she’d heard so much about, was not her Lady.

_I love you, Lady. Please, please be there._

_Be mine._

Rising to her feet before her emotions could be seen, Sansa gathered herself and waited for Catelyn to finish.

“How did your prayer go, Catelyn?” she asked her sister quietly while leading the way back to the awaiting wheelhouses.

Catelyn looked unsure how to answer but eventually did. “I’m not sure. Honestly, I don’t know how to feel about it,” she confided in Sansa. “But Uncle is right. I’m betrothed to the next Warden of the North, and that includes the ways of the North.”

Feeling sympathetic for her sister who needed to go through a change so fundamental to her, Sansa took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “It will take time, Catelyn. I know you can do it. You will be the next Lady of Winterfell yet.”

Cat returned the squeeze with a small smile. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Of course, sister.”

The Manderlys originated from the Reach and brought their following of the Seven with them, their sept within their castle. However, telling that to Cat wouldn't help matters if Brandon Stark refused to accommodate her sister's southron faith within the walls of Winterfell.

They were almost back to the wheelhouses now and Lord Stark was emerging from the home of House Manderly with its lord watching him from the gate of his castle. Sansa and Catelyn didn’t tarry any further and climbed into the wheelhouse with no one in it. Their uncle was mounted on a horse with one saddled but no rider beside him, Lord Stark no doubt. Half of the original Tully retinue was with them, for the other half had departed south with House Baratheon.

When Sansa felt the jolt of the wheelhouse beginning to move, she could feel her heartbeat’s pace increase in anticipation.

 

_Day 14, 6 th Moon, 276 AC_

Ever since leaving White Harbour, Sansa’s eyes rarely left the windows as she took in the sight of her homeland; her true homeland; the North.

The green of the tundra, the white of the snow, the grey of the rock.

_Home._

This was home.

Halfway to Winterfell, in fact, thanks to the freshly ploughed road.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home._

_I am a Stark and I know our words._

_Winter is coming._

_In the winter, we protect ourselves; look after one another._

Sansa swallowed discreetly and didn’t look at Cat. Winter was thawing, but there was a winter of a different kind coming and she needed to protect her loved ones.

He wasn’t worth the thought right now. She’d lost too much thanks to him.

Focussing on the North; listening to its sounds, the breeze through the open window, the sunlight touching the snow, Sansa embraced the feeling of home and could feel herself close to tears.

She knew what was awaiting them at Winterfell; she prayed to the gods that she was right.

She didn’t know if she would be able to hold it together when they arrived.

_Day 21, 6 th Moon, 276 AC_

It was the final stretch today.

Within her rented chamber shared with Cat, Sansa was silently abed and wiping tears from her cheeks. This tavern was the closest one to Winterfell and less than a day’s journey from the humble but sturdy castle.

_Today._

_It’s today._

Muffling a gasp that sobs soon followed, Sansa glanced over at Cat and saw she was still asleep.

Her throat was tight, eyes wet, chest shaking.

_Gods, I’m almost home._

_Lady._

_Please be there, Lady._

There were so many happy young memories of Winterfell of the times as a child. Her brothers and sister.

The playing with Arya, before being groomed to become a lady.

Robb, Jon, and Theon pretending to be knights and monsters fighting over the damsel in distress.

Looking after little Bran and Rickon. They’d been so innocent.  

Turning over in the bed and burying her face into the pillow, Sansa let her tears fall free from her eyes. The fabric of her pillow muffled her weeping, blocking it from her sister’s ears.

Riverrun was her home now; not Winterfell. She couldn’t fall apart like this when they arrive today.

_But so many memories…_

Taking a breath and looking out to the horizon, it was clear that it was well before sunrise. Her anxiety of returning to Winterfell must have woken her earlier than normal. The knowledge of how close they were last night lingering in her mind when she fell asleep.

Looking to Cat again, Sansa took care to not make too much noise as she slipped from her bed and donned her mummer’s gown; a thickly made gown of silver and blue with Tully adornments.

Seeing the silver trout embroidering decorating her gown upon glancing at a looking glass, Sansa abandoned the idea of wearing her hair like a Southron lady and did the twin small braids that met at the back of her head. The style she always wore as the Lady of Winterfell.

_I am a Stark of Winterfell._

_I may not have that name, but I have their blood._

_Stark and Tully in equal measure._

Sneaking out of the shared bedchamber, Sansa didn’t stop upon reaching the ground floor. Instead, she went outside to watch the sunrise.

And there she remained until the sun began its ascension, her hopes of a reunion with Lady; hopes of seeing her first home without problems.

_It has begun._

The beginning of a new day.

The beginning of seeing Winterfell, home, once more.

The beginning of seeing Lady.

 _Please,_ she prayed, _let Lady be safe and healthy. Let me see her. Please._

Within her mind, she repeated that prayer all day. The breaking of fast was a blur. Getting back into the wheelhouse was a blur. The midday meal.

Everything.

Everything was a blur.

And yet slow torture.

_Please be there, Lady. Please._

That was the mantra in her mind as Winterfell got closer and closer. Out of view; the towers too far away to be seen yet, but in that direction, Sansa knew they were there.

How could she not?

She couldn’t give away the truth now; not so close to home – _Winterfell_.

In her heart, Winterfell would always have a place that would never fade. Her girlhood memories were there, the truth of her identity was there, the memories of a life she would never see again. She would never let it go and never forget.

In her girlhood, the people of Winterfell japed behind her back that she was a trout in wolf’s skin; the opposite would be true now, but she would never let go of Winterfell completely.

Riverrun had true meaning to Sansa as well, especially Mother. But after being gone from Winterfell for years on end she yearned to be reunited with a place she’d long loved.

Riverrun was home now, and she would have to remember that, but treasured memories of a time long gone would always be here.

Lady was all that remained of that time.

Her heart was torn between two places, two homes, and two families. Both were a part of her; one deep within her, and the other clear for all to see.

Glancing over to her sister who was reading, Sansa felt melancholy take over at the thought of seeing something so dear but never able to express it.

One wolf.

Sansa had not forgotten what that squat woman at the tourney had said to her. An ally she would be able to honestly talk to. It could have been a lie, and there was a possibility it still was, but there was yet a time for the spoken words to be proven as such. Petyr now had knowledge of what hadn’t yet come to pass, Sansa had her memories, and Lady was here in the North.

_Lady…_

Looking out the window once more, Sansa sighed softly and watched as the tundra and moors of the North rolled by.

There was a feeling of joy within her and a desire to make her feelings into sounds, but Sansa knew she couldn’t afford to make matters dramatic. Whatever that feeling was, it calmed down but the joy never faded.

Sansa would say that it was even an infectious one because she could feel the corners of her mouth pull into a small smile, her sadness of missing Lady and Winterfell weakened to the point it was only a hint hidden in the corner of her mind.

The wheelhouse tilted upward then lowered slightly before rising again.

Hills.

Winterfell had a series of hills on the King’s Road very close to it.

Every fibre of her body shook with anticipation, an urge to stand within the wheelhouse and truly look out the window to see Winterfell.

She wanted to mount a horse and find Lady.

She had to be here.

She had to be.

The wheelhouse passed through both sets of gates and stopping in a courtyard she knew so well.

But Lady was not in sight.

_Please…_


	44. My Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to get this done. I did my best to keep it error-free.

SANSA STARK

_Day 21, 6 th Moon, 276 AC_

She hadn’t left the wheelhouse yet but the windows showed much of the courtyard. Sansa could feel fear stir within herself that the dreams were false and always had been.

“Sansa,” Cat spoke with a sympathetic expression and took her hand. “Are you afraid of the direwolf? Benjen Stark told me on the _Swift Wolf_ that it roams free in Winterfell but too big to go inside,” her sister provided, giving Sansa a small smile. “We best not keep Lady Stark waiting, then we can be inside,” Catelyn encouraged and squeezed Sansa’s hand with her own.

It was sweet of Cat to be looking out for her own sister. Sansa appreciated the gesture and gave Cat a shaky nod. She wanted to see Lady again and there had been no sign of her, but with Catelyn noticing her anxiety there was no doubt that others would too, and that would mean trouble.

“Thank you, Cat,” Sansa said softly as she forced herself to embody the person that Sansa Tully should be; especially in Winterfell. “I am afraid,” she admitted in a mutter.

_Afraid of ruining everything._

“We’ll be alright,” Cat told her kindly. “Come, we’ve tarried a little already.”

Nodding her head to her sister, Sansa returned the hand squeeze briefly and rose from her seat, and soon followed her out the door of the wheelhouse.

_Home._

In her heart, home was where she was now, but in her mind, Sansa pushed forward that Riverrun was her home.

She desired to gaze at the castle and drink in the sight of it, but that was not wise; her eyes darted to Catelyn and she remembered that Catelyn had seen her fear, although for the wrong reason. Nonetheless, Catelyn had seen her emotions. If a girl of twelve could see them, the Starks also would and Uncle Brynden would immediately think Sansa hadn’t listened to him in the Gates of the Moon; very likely to send her home.

_But I am home._

_I don’t want to return to Riverrun until I have to._

Pushing the thoughts down and focussing on the present, Sansa stopped to stand beside Catelyn and look at their new hosts. Lord and Lady Stark; Sansa paternal grandparents who she had never met.

Alive and in the flesh standing together right before her.

 _I can’t afford sentiments right now!_ She shouted to herself within her mind.

Her heart and her mind were at war. The sights of Cat and Uncle Brynden being the only things keeping her from letting her heart dominate her actions. Yes, she had sobbed in bed in that tavern. Yes, she had deliberately done her hair in the Northern style this morning. Yes, she barely looked away from the windows on the journey here.

_I need to keep my wits about me. My heart bleeds for Lady and Winterfell, but if I indulge my feelings too much Uncle Brynden will send me back early._

_That is the last thing I want._

Wrestling with the conflict within herself, Sansa closed her eyes for a moment and looked up to the Stark family standing before her, Cat and Uncle Brynden.

Rickard Stark stood at the head of the family, Lyarra on his right. Brandon was on his left, Ned next to him, then Lyanna. On Lyarra Stark’s right was little eight-year-old Benjen.

_Uncle Benjen was the only one I met, but…but I can’t think of him like that. I’m a Tully and my uncle is right next to me, not standing before the doors of Winterfell’s Great Hall._

_Formal, I have to be formal; it’s the only way I’ll manage my stay here._

The voice of Lord Stark broke through Sansa’s thoughts and drew the attention of all. “Ser Brynden, Ladies Catelyn and Sansa,” he addressed them with a glance in turn. “You’ve journeyed long to Winterfell and our servants will see to your comforts after bread and salt. I see you’re tired and so am I. Mayhaps we delay talk until dinner once we’ve indulged in rest?” he suggested with dignity and regard.

Uncle Brynden nodded in agreement. “A shared thought, Lord Stark,” he replied and turned to Lyarra. “A pleasure to meet again, my Lady Stark.”

“The pleasure is mine, Ser Brynden,” she returned with a kind smile. “Mayhaps we proceed with the bread and salt, so we all can freshen up and rest before the evening meal?” Lady Stark continued, looking to the three of them in turn and giving Catelyn and Sansa a flicker of a smile then turning back to Uncle Brynden.

Uncle Brynden bowed his head. “An appealing idea, Lady Stark.”

Rickard Stark partly turned towards the doors of the Great Hall. “It will be served in the Great Hall. Follow me, and soon we all shall rest.”

The Starks were the first to enter the Great Hall that Sansa had to pretend to not know. Next were Uncle Brynden and her sister, Cat. Within her mind, she had to keep calling them such.

_Sister. My sister, Catelyn Tully._

Following them both inside, Sansa was welcomed with the sight of a place she had sorely missed. The tables as she remembered them, the tapestries as she remembered them, the candelabras currently unlit, except the central one, as they hung high from the ceiling, as she remembered them. The wooden shutters open, allowing light to pour in through the glass.

On the head table of the Great Hall were plates of bread and salt, with a pitcher of water next to empty goblets. Taking the seat next to her sister Cat, Sansa accepted the offering from a handmaid and looked at the Starks as everyone ate their share.

Brandon was confident as was Lyanna. Ned and Benjen, on the other hand, were calm and content as they ate. Lord and Lady Stark were having a silent conversation with only their glances at one another, but it wasn’t too blatant.

Sansa, who realised she was the last Tully to be finishing up her bread, gazed at everyone else and saw most of them were drinking the water. Benjen was still eating his bread.

“Brandon, Lyanna,” Lady Stark said to her eldest son and daughter. “When they’re ready, I want you to show Ser Brynden and Ladies Catelyn and Sansa the bathing chamber and the bedchambers for their stay.”

Lyanna had the beginning of a grimace that she smothered at Lady Stark’s glare. Sansa watched to see if there would be a scene, but Lyanna merely rose from her seat and approached Catelyn and Sansa. “Follow me,” she spoke to them plainly.

Suddenly Benjen spoke. “Mother, the hot spring chamber is in the godswood,” he seemed to be reminding her. “Lady lives there,” the Starkling said with worry. “She’s as big as a horse. She’ll scare them.”

Sansa had to force herself not to be excited; to force a look of concern and fear.

All eyes turned to Lady Stark at the mention of the direwolf. “Worry not, Benjen,” she spoke to her son kindly, a fondness in her eyes. “Lady went hunting in the Wolfswood shortly before you returned and won’t be back for a time. She feeds herself, remember?”

“Oh, sorry, Mother,” Benjen replied sounding a little embarrassed.

“I understand, Benjen. You were doing the right thing,” Lady Stark forgave him, and turned to the members of House Tully. “If you desire to bath before dinner, there is truly nothing to be concerned about. Every day at this time and sunrise, Lady hunts for an hour or two in the Wolfswood,” the lady explained patiently. “I was frightened when I met her, given her size, but she has a peaceful demeanour. Lady’s never been trouble with our family or the smallfolk here. She doesn’t approach or harass anyone who is afraid of her. Like any wolf she can smell some emotions; fear being one of them.”

Uncle Brynden nodded his head to Lord and Lady Stark in turn. “Thank you, my lord, my lady. This information is appreciated and will be put to good use. I shall see this direwolf of yours, but something I’ll endeavour in on the morrow.”

Lord Stark straightened in his chair and looked to the Tullys. “When you desire to meet the direwolf, my only condition is you are to be in the company of myself or my wife, preferably my wife. We understand her behaviour, especially Lyarra, and will make it an easier experience. And we do not jape that she is the size of a horse,” he warned them.

“Understood, Lord Stark,” Uncle Brynden acknowledged with respect.

Cat didn’t look too enthusiastic in meeting the direwolf, her face a little pale. “Yes, my Lord Stark.”

“I will, my Lord Stark,” Sansa said, making it known that she had listened. She was glad her complexion was pale, to begin with, for she was not afraid of Lady.

Cat rose to her feet and so Sansa did the same, which prompted Lyanna to show them where they would be sleeping and bathing. Leading the pair of them out of the Great Hall and back to the courtyard, Sansa knew they were being shown the bedchambers in the Guest House by Lyanna.

_The Guest House overlooks the godswood._

A small smile emerged at the thought of seeing Lady, even if it was from her window. Uncle Brynden had chosen to see Lady tomorrow morning, so Sansa couldn’t try to organise to see her tonight without seeming strange.

Considering she was supposedly seeing this castle for the first time, Sansa had to constantly remind herself that she shouldn’t know her way around Winterfell. With Lyanna leading them it wasn’t a problem, but Sansa needed to pretend that she was looking for markings and clues of where she was. If someone was watching them, she would have the excuse of those clues should she forget to feign cluelessness about her whereabouts.

The Guest House was on the opposite side of Winterfell from where the family slept in the Great Keep; not a place she frequently much in the past, but still she remembered it for she had grown up in this castle. The bedchambers Lyanna showed to both of them were tidy and already had possessions residing within them. Some were no doubt mixed up by accident, but it was of little matter.

Wandering over to the window, Sansa couldn’t resist peering into the godswood, but to no avail for her hopes. Pointless as they were since Lady shouldn’t be there for an hour yet.

“These will be your bedchambers,” Lyanna told them, pausing to look at them both, Catelyn standing in the centre of Sansa’s bedchamber as a guest. “If you both want to bath before the return of the direwolf, you better get a fresh dress to bring to the bathing chamber in the godswood.”

It was without hesitation that both girls retrieved one; in Sansa’s case, a mummer’s gown featuring the colours of Tully and Lannister.

Nodding at the sight of the sisters both holding a dress, Lyanna leads them away from the bedchambers. “My mother said the direwolf left to hunt shortly before you arrived. I can’t confirm that, so don’t tarry with your bathing. Lady will be scary and you heard what my father said in the Great Hall; no meeting the direwolf without one of my parents with you,” she told them with a hint of obligation in her tone.

Catelyn, as they walked behind Lyanna, became a little restless and Sansa put her hand on Cat’s shoulder to whisper in her ear. “I’ll bath last if you wish, Cat,” Sansa offered, watching her sister give a smile of appreciation while Sansa pulled away to walk straight once more.

The offer was somewhat of a hope that she would spot Lady within the godswood by bathing last. Lady Stark had said an hour _or_ two, so there was obviously days where Lady got lucky during her hunts.

_Please be lucky today, Lady._

Passing through the gate that led to the kennels and the Hunter’s Gate, Sansa wondered for a moment if Lyanna’s mind was addled because this was not the way to the godswood and bathing chamber. There’d never been an entry point to the godswood from this area. Only one, and it was a wooden gate next to the glass garden near the North gate, not the Hunter’s Gate.

Unless Sansa wanted trouble, she simply had to keep her thoughts to herself on this matter.

While venturing this way, Sansa spotted someone who could only be Hodor; he was younger, of course, but he had the height and build of the Hodor she’d once known as Winterfell’s stableboy.

“Walder, my father has returned with company. Please tend to their horses and make sure they’re fed,” Lyanna said to Hodor, who nodded and said one thing before leaving.

“I miss Snowstorm. She was a nice horse,” Hodor replied before walking off, Lyanna looking a little pained.

_Wait, wait. Hodor can talk? And his name is Walder? Did I truly forget this? But all he ever said when I was a child was ‘Hodor’ with different inflections._

_A horse named Snowstorm, hmm. What is that all about?_

Recovering from that mental slap, Sansa noticed Lyanna approaching what appeared to be an archway in the wall. An archway that was part of the original construction, due to the way it looked like it belonged there. Surprised and quietly following Lyanna and Cat, Sansa paid attention yet couldn’t for the life of her remember there ever being such an archway, a gate actually.

Seeing a difference in the colour of the stone, Sansa could distinguish the colour stain of moss around the gate that was absent from the rest of the stone, which was grey.

 _Mayhaps vegetation had grown over the gate before I was born._ _That would explain why I never knew about it._

Shaking the matter off for now while they were walking to the bathing chamber, Sansa gazed at the godswood and felt peace from the serene appearance.

The white snow, the healthy weirwoods, an unburnt heart tree, pools of hot water scattered within the godswood.

Upon her return to Winterfell as Sansa Stark, the godswood have been damaged to almost the point of beyond recognition.

Taking in the view for now and following Lyanna to the bathing chamber, they reached it before long and Sansa kept to her word of giving Cat the option of bathing first. Lyanna turned on Sansa while Cat was inside. “What did you say to my mother in Riverrun? Ever since I saw you talk to her in that jape of a godswood, Mother has often mentioned you when she’s teaching me.”

During the time that the Starks and Lannisters had been visiting Riverrun, Sansa made sure to have put her best foot forward in all affairs, even the ugly ones featuring Cersei. It seemed there was a large possibility that Lady Stark’s mentionings of Sansa were in the context of how to be a lady. She never considered herself to be perfect, but she always attempted to be a lady that would make Mother proud.

A retort along the lines of ‘Being an aggressive host to my house will only encourage her to mention me more,’ was on the tip of her tongue, but Sansa knew taking the bait of Lyanna’s question would only lead to a fight.

_I’d rot in the Seven Hells before I give Uncle Brynden any reason to send me back to Riverrun early._

_You’re not getting a rise out of me, Lyanna._

Sansa wrapped herself in her lady training and demurely responded. “Lady Stark was the only lady present at Riverrun. I had a question only a lady can answer. Nothing more, Lyanna,” That wasn’t necessarily true, her father or Uncle Brynden could have answered but at the time they were still watchful of her and only beginning to warm up to her as a family. She’d posed her experiences in King’s Landing as a nightmare then asked what she knew about House Lannister.

In King’s Landing, she hadn’t been aware of multiple things and used her alleged nightmare of it – appropriate alterations made – as a reason to wanting to be aware of any habits, scandals, family conflicts and the like about House Lannister that would keep her from being taken by surprise at Casterly Rock.

Chances were that Lady Stark was just sympathetic about Sansa’s familial circumstances and her lady-like demeanour simply made Sansa an endearing girl to Lady Stark.

Lyanna wasn’t happy with that non-answer and looked away with an irritated expression. “What about your own mother?”

Sansa crushed the urge to flinch and looked back at Lyanna with the shielded eyes she wore around all except Jaime. There were many things she could say, but continuing this conversation would only hurt Sansa in the end. Speaking of Mother was not a painful concept, but to speak of her during a hostile conversation only served to possibly ruin Sansa’s memories of her.

“By the gods, could you be any more selfish?” Catelyn spoke, snapping them both out of the staring between them. Sansa could see this ending in only trouble.

“Don’t, Cat,” Sansa urged, hoping this won’t become a fight on their first day in Winterfell.

“No, Sansa, I’m saying this,” Cat replied stubbornly. She turned to Lyanna. “My mother, _our_ mother, is dead. Or don’t you remember questioning my father at Guest Right about Mother’s choice of giving Sansa her name?” she reminded Lyanna hotly. “Sansa needed someone to talk to. What is the big issue you have with my sister, Lyanna?”

Seeing this could get out of hand extremely fast if she didn’t do something, Sansa grasped Cat’s wrist and gave it a squeeze which drew her attention. “Catelyn, we just got here. Not on my account, please.”

Cat gazed at Sansa for a long moment and sighed. “Doesn’t this hurt you?”

“Fighting won’t solve it, Cat. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re lucky I love you, sister,” Catelyn replied, visibly attempting to smother her anger. “I recall the way back,” she told Lyanna and walked away, her hands clenching and unclenching but stopped when she shook her head.

Taking her leave, Sansa went inside the bathing chamber and took care to bolt the door before taking off her mummer’s gown and placing her fresh one inside an attached chamber featuring dry clothes of fine quality. Closing the walk-in wardrobe, she went over to the natural hot spring and climbed in with her hands on the tiled floor because she was a girl again, not a woman grown.

_That was so low, Lyanna. Have you truly forgotten that Mother died, or a mummery to make me create drama on my first day here?_

Either way, Sansa remained quiet as she enjoyed the warmth of the spring, resting her head against the tiling of the chamber floor. Closing her eyes and embracing the heat of the pool, she imagined she was in Riverrun with Mother when Mother still had the energy to rise each day. The lessons about being a lady, the talk of her sisters eventually accepting her, the feeling of Mother brushing and running her fingers through her hair, the comforting she’d given Sansa after the altercation of Petyr Baelish.

And the warmth she felt inside when Mother said ‘My daughter’ or ‘My girl’ whilst speaking to her.

Her promise to Mother that she would ride every day and remember their time together had been kept when possible. Mayhaps a ride along the moors of Winterfell on the morrow. Every day Sansa thought about her best memories, horse or no. However, riding always seemed to give her a freeing feeling that she would almost say made the memories more vivid. Mayhaps because she was alone and away from the problems the world wanted her to solve.

_I love you, Mother._

_She would want me to enjoy my time here if she knew the truth._

Climbing out of the hot spring, Sansa thoroughly dried herself with a linen and retrieved her mummer’s gown to slip into it. The looking glass in the chamber was too foggy to be of any use, so she braided her hair into a single braid down her back; both to hide its damp state and her lack of a means to nicely do her twin thin braids.

She was about to leave the chamber when she noticed there was a bowl of water near the door of the bathing chamber. Going over to it, Sansa knelt down and could see a cursive ‘L’ was painted on the side. Tracing the letter with her index finger, she softly smiled with the knowledge that Lady was cared for here in Winterfell; not merely a source of bragging for House Stark.

Rising up and opening the door out into the godswood, Sansa glanced around it while she walked back to the wooden gate Lyanna had led her and Cat through. She’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Lady in case she had already returned from her hunt, but there’d been no one around.

Not even Lyanna.

It wasn’t surprising, although Sansa had to admit that she had at least expected the younger girl to be there. Lady Stark had instructed Lyanna to show the Tully daughters to the bedchambers and the bathing chamber, and considering Lord Stark’s words about not meeting Lady alone it would have made sense for Lyanna to remain nearby to ensure his words were obeyed.

Not dwelling on the matter any further, Sansa returned to her bedchamber in the Guest House on quiet feet just in case Cat was already asleep in her bedchamber. As peculiar as it may sound, travelling by wheelhouse all day dulls the senses after exposure to ongoing relative silence.

Adding her emotional state about Lady and Winterfell, but mainly Lady, had sapped her of energy. Sitting in a wheelhouse with erratic emotions was a draining experience.

Closing her chamber door carefully with a gentle hand, Sansa drew the curtains over her window and climbed onto the bed for a nap.

 

LYARRA STARK

It was a pleasure to have all of her children in Winterfell again, despite the circumstances. Benjen was happily showing Ned what Ser Rodrick had taught him by sparring with the master-at-arms himself. For a woman who’d never picked up a sword, Lyarra could tell her youngest had a way to go yet, but the smile on the boy’s face when Ned complimented his performance made her happy that her children were happy.

Coming down from the balcony that gave a clear view of the courtyard, she ventured over to her sons and gave them both a kiss to the foreheads and words of encouragement. Although thirteen, Ned didn’t resist her affection, but it was clear to her that her second son was becoming too old for anything more than compliments and the occasional hug.

To learn from Rickard that their son was now betrothed to Ashara Dayne had been something of a surprise for Lyarra. In the past Ned had always been a quiet boy who shied away from speaking to most girls; Lyanna and Sansa Tully being the exception. Apparently, the tourney of Lannisport had changed that slightly, where Ashara was said to have befriended Ned to the point he welcomed her to calling him ‘Ned’ instead of Eddard. And in the Vale, Rickard had witnessed enough positive interactions between the pair that he presented a betrothal to Lady Dayne, which was immediately accepted by the Heir of Starfall.

Benjen, only moons away from turning nine, was growing in the way her son should. Somewhat like Ned, but with more self-confidence.

She wondered if the allegedly dominant personality of Robert Baratheon had anything to do with Ned’s esteem being less than she’s anticipated. However, her husband waived her concern with mentions of him teaching Ned to stand up for his beliefs, which was improving by spending time around Jaime Lannister and Stannis Baratheon. Apparently, neither boy was like Robert, attempting to be the centre of every conversation.

Rickard had been watchful of their Vale fostered son when given the chance.

It appears that their other two children were another story; Brandon and Lyanna. Brandon was the better of the two, but still with a way to go yet.

Brandon, in the absence of her husband at Winterfell, had done an acceptable job as acting Lord of Winterfell under her guidance. It appeared that the harsh consequences of shooting the very horse he’d lamed, in his foolish ride back to Winterfell, had gotten through to him. However, Lyarra was reluctant to say that he was ready for anything further than taking his father’s place for short periods of time. Brandon would have to prove himself to Lyarra after what he’d done by riding ahead of the retinue a few moons ago.

Lyanna was a different story to her brother. Without the responsibilities of acting lord, she was freer to behave as she pleased and that was her downfall currently. Try as Lyarra might teaching her daughter how to be a lady was an uphill climb with Lyanna.

It was true that the gods had decided to give her a fright in the Wolfswood with that hunting pack, further driving home that actions have consequences, but it wasn’t exactly what was needed at the moment. Yes, going to the Wolfswood alone and without a weapon was foolish, the result scaring Lyanna deeply for days despite no injuries. What was needed for her daughter were the subtleties of being a lady, and a good hostess in general.

Believe if they will, the three girls almost breaking into a fight hadn’t gone unnoticed by Lyarra. In fact, she’d witnessed it from above but out of sight. Raising Lyanna properly was going to need close but unnoticed attention from Lyarra to ensure that her teachings were getting through to her daughter. In increments, it seemed.

Lyanna had almost made a full grimace earlier when required to show the Tully daughters to their bedchambers and the bathing chamber, but Lyarra stopped the potential commotion Lyanna’s expression could have caused. Before effectively eavesdropping on her daughter, Lyarra believed that it was merely rebelling against the lessons. That eavesdropping, however, had revealed to her Lyanna’s irritation during lessons of being a lady was caused by Lyarra mentioning Sansa Tully. In a nutshell, it was jealousy.

Making references of Sansa Tully or even Catelyn Tully was difficult to avoid, due to the fact that both girls would have made their mother proud had she been there to see it. As shown by Lady Catelyn’s temper, she still has a few things to learn about being baited, but otherwise a good lady. Lady Sansa seemed more practised in courtesies, hence the references during lessons.

She’ll make a conscious effort to avoid mentioning the girl’s name next time Lyarra attempted to teach Lyanna the requirements of a lady. If it made no difference, Lyarra would be getting to the bottom of why her daughter was digging in her heels at lessons.

Going down to the godswood, Lyarra found Lady dozing amongst the snow and trees. It appeared that the Tully daughters weren’t the only ones to be resting or sleeping for longer than expected. At this hour, the direwolf was typically wandering around the courtyard or watching the people milling around to fulfil their tasks.

The curtains of both bedchambers in the Guest House could be seen from the godswood, suggesting that the young ladies were still abed for their nap.

_Let the girls rest. I’ll inform the cooks when I see those curtains open._

Lyarra had not forgotten Lady’s reaction to Sansa’s name and wanted to see the pair interact. Clearly, it wouldn’t be today considering Lady Sansa was recuperating from the journey like the rest of her family.

_I won’t deny the jealousy, but why a Tully and not a twice over Stark?_

 

SANSA STARK

_Day 22, 6 th Moon, 276 AC_

The hour was early. Sansa could feel the chill in her bones and quickly dressed into her thick mummer’s gown to help warm her up.

Dinner last night had been a peaceful affair of pleasant food and quiet conversation for the most part. Lord Stark, with Eddard and Benjen, had travelled with them from the Vale, which led to most of the talk being answering Lady Stark’s questions about Elia’s wedding. Brandon had listened with a few questions about the choice of a Dornishwoman instead of a woman of the Vale but asked without any inflection that hinted whether he was for or against the idea. Lyanna wasn’t quite so subtle and Sansa had known that the Stark daughter thought ill of Ser Elbert marrying the Dornish princess.

Shaking off her thoughts of last night’s meal, Sansa went over to the window and pulled the curtain aside until she had an unimpeded view of the godswood below. Somewhere within that godswood, a direwolf resided, possibly her direwolf from before, and given the pre-sunrise hour, it was tempting to sneak out to see her again after as long.

But Winterfell had always had guards.

_But I mustn’t act like I know her. I’m supposed to be a Tully who’s never met any direwolf. The Starks were fearful of her, so I must be the same._

_I must be careful._

_I must give no hint I don’t fear their direwolf; my direwolf._

_Please be my Lady._

Opening her window, Sansa watched and waited to see it her scent would get Lady’s attention. Sansa mayhaps not be able to go to Lady, but that didn’t mean Lady couldn’t come to her.

Taking a breath, she was cautious and kept her tone low. “Lady,” she whispered out towards the godswood. If the direwolf was her Lady, she would come. If not, Sansa would have time to weep about false dreams and conceal traces of tears before breaking of fast with everyone else.

Standing within the centre of her bedchamber, Sansa prayed in silence that it was her Lady and not a mockery that would torment her with could-have-beens.

Listening intently for an approach coming from the godswood, she peered out of the window when she heard a disturbance in the hot spring that warmed the Guest House.

Tempting, it was truly tempting to release a cry of joy at the sight of Lady; her Lady.

The fur, the eyes, the mannerisms. It was all there.

Her Lady.

“Lady,” she barely managed for say.

Lady’s tail was wagging back and forth with energy, her maw open and eyes bright with excitement.

“Oh, Lady…” Bringing a hand to her mouth, Sansa muffled her sobs, unbidden tears sliding down her cheeks.

_My Lady…._

Gripping the windowsill, she drank in the sight of her direwolf, _her_ direwolf. Sansa dared not to look away for even a moment.

_I love you._

Lady was restless and clearly wishing to approach Sansa, but the pair of them was separated by height, water and stone.

A foreign feeling of happiness washed over Sansa and made a smile come to her lips.

Grace be damned, Sansa wanted to jump out into the pool a floor below so she could swim over to Lady. It had been too long since she’d last seen Lady.

But logic stopped her from doing it; trouble would be the only result. No matter how much she wished to breach the gap between them.

“I love you,” she whispered out to her direwolf. Her Lady.

This was no mockery.

This was not another direwolf with the same name.

This was _Lady_.

As a grown direwolf, Lady was a sight to behold. Larger than Sansa had ever seen her, she truly close to the size of a horse. Lady was beauty and danger mixed into one being.

“Thank the gods…You’re actually here. You’re my Lady. My Lady.”

Lady made a soft bark, and Sansa couldn’t resist the smile that emerged.

_My Lady._

She wanted to touch her. Her hands on Lady’s fur. To feel her and know this wasn’t a figment of a desperate imagination.

_But I can’t. Not yet._

There was too much risk involved if Sansa didn’t get a grip of herself before sunrise. There was absolutely no doubt that her face was a mess needing to be cleaned up to conceal the relief she had cried. Tears still trickled down her face, but Sansa had to stop crying before it was too late.

“Go on and hunt, Lady. I’ll see you again after,” she instructed her direwolf, who was looking her in the eyes.

Suddenly Sansa could see herself from the godswood. Truly, she was a weeping mess, but there was clear joy in her expression.

With a gasp of surprise, everything was normal again. Lady down in the godswood and Sansa standing in her bedchamber looking at her.

“I promise, Lady. After your hunt, I promise.”

Sansa saw Lady lope away towards the gate to the kennels, looking so happy and free. It was purely Lady; no collar or ribbon.

Just Lady.

_I’ll never do that again. No ribbon, nothing. You and only you, Lady._

Taking a breath and wiping away the trickling tears, Sansa closed the window of her bedchamber and went over to the water basin in the corner of her chamber; a washcloth nearby. Dabbing it in the water, she brought it up to her eyes and waited until they felt cold. And again she did the same, but her forehead, cheeks; repeating the process until she was sure that with an hour or two the red of her face would fade to nothing.

Sitting on her featherbed, Sansa rested her head against the warm wall and closed her eyes. “Oh gods…”

And there she remained for hours until it was time for her to make for the Great Hall to break her fast with the rest of her family in the company of the Starks.

They were all there in the hall. Lord and Lady Stark with their four children, Uncle Brynden with Sansa and her sister. The meal reminded her of a past long gone; simple but filling, and Sansa putting a little honey on hers just the way she liked it.

She’d been eleven last time she’d been happy at breaking of fast in Winterfell. Later on had always been surrounded with a vibe of haste and despair.

And she’s eleven again, happily eating her breaking of fast in the same hall.

She was brought out of her thoughts by Uncle Brynden’s words. “Lady Stark,” he began, looking towards Lord and Lady Stark. “It is not every day that a man has the opportunity to meet a creature such as a direwolf. If time is not scarce today I’d appreciate meeting this direwolf young Benjen spoke so fondly of,” Uncle Brynden requested when the conversation had slowed.

“Ser Brynden, that won’t be a problem. I’ll show you in two hours, for I doubt you’ll want to see Lady so soon after she’s been hunting. Your nieces, Lady Catelyn and Lady Sansa, will appreciate it no doubt,” Lady Stark suggested, turning her attention to the two sisters. “If you wish to meet her, my ladies?”

Giving Lady Stark an immediate answer was an itch that Sansa wanted to scratch, but she needed to keep the attention off her and have Catelyn involved.

Catelyn inclined her head but had a minor shake in her tone. “I would, my Lady Stark.”

“I would like to see her also, my Lady Stark,” Sansa spoke when Lyarra’s attention turned to her.

Nodding to their answers, Lady Stark turned back to Uncle Brynden. “In two hours, Ser,” she told him. “My only request is bearing no steel when you meet her.”

It was a peculiar thing for Lady Stark to make a condition and Sansa wasn’t alone in those thoughts.

“My lady?” Uncle Brynden spoke with confusion.

Lady Stark glanced at her husband slightly before focussing on Uncle Brynden. “She has an aversion to it, Ser. I will demonstrate without steel and if you change your mind we will understand.”

“Very well, Lady Stark.”

Breaking of fast was over shortly after, with everyone going their separate ways. The exception of the Starks was little Benjen Stark, who’d taken it upon himself to give Sansa and Catelyn a tour of the castle. As they wandered the halls, Sansa reminisced silently; memories of a past gone replaying themselves within these very halls.

“Here,” young Benjen said eagerly. “Just stay here and watch,” he instructed on the balcony. Watching as the little boy of eight dashed down the stairs into the courtyard, Sansa and Cat witnessed him walk up to Lady without any fear in his stride and engulfed her with a hug around the neck. “See?” he called up to them from the courtyard. “She’s nice!”

The sight was adorable and Sansa wanted to go down there and hold Lady with her own arms. However, it was already organised that the Tullys would be introduced to her by Lady Stark before the midday meal.

_I love you, Lady._

Lady looked to her with soft eyes of yellow and made a sound that was barely a bark. Sansa smiled at her direwolf for a moment and glanced to Cat, who was still looking at Lady with a mixture of fear and awe. “She’s massive, and he just ran up to her,” Cat murmured, looking to Sansa after she spoke. “How is he not afraid? He’s only a year or so younger than Lysa.”

Sansa shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she murmured, watching as Benjen ran back up the stairs to the balcony. “Benjen?” Sansa said, looking into his blue eyes, the same blue as Lady Stark. “How are you comfortable being so close to a wolf that size?”

“She carried Mother on the King’s Road and Mother never had a scratch,” he told them both, shocking them into silence. “So I went to play with Lady,” Benjen continued, leading them inside. “All I had to do was be nice and carry no steel. She stopped me from tripping in the godswood too!”

_Gods be good, Benjen, that was reckless._

While the traversed the halls of Winterfell, Cat looked to Sansa in bewilderment and shook her head.

“Benjen! BENJEN!” Lyanna was shouting in the halls but not in sight. “BEN- Oh. I thought the Tullys were with you,” she said to her brother and turned to Cat and Sansa. “Mother sent me to find you. Ser Brynden is already with her to go and see Lady in the godswood,” Lyanna told them both.

_It’s time. By the gods, it’s time. Lady!_

“Lyanna, what is this commotion?” Rickard Stark questioned, seeming to appear out of nowhere to a distracted Sansa. He glanced at the scene before him and looked to Lyanna sideways. “Benjen, please show Ladies Catelyn and Sansa to the godswood, son.”

The little boy was leading the way again and had most of Sansa’s attention; voices behind her drawing some of it.

“We’re hosting them, Lyanna. Shouting is unacceptable and seen as rude,” Rickard Stark was scolding his daughter. “Go and join them in the godswood.”

Sansa paid no further attention to the conversation behind them and down the hall. Remembering the mention of bearing no steel when meeting Lady, Sansa touched her sheaths to make sure she’d put her knives away. Thankfully, they were empty and she lengthened her strides to catch up with Cat and Benjen.

Inside herself, Sansa’s excitement was brimming near the edge beneath her skin. Closing her eyes and taking a breath she pushed it back down to get herself under control. She’d seen Lady two different times on the same day, and on the second it was clear Cat had seen Lady; so she wasn’t being fooled by her imagination.

_You don’t know Lady. You’re scared of Lady, but not craven. You’ve never met Lady._

It was a mantra she repeated to herself as they got closer and closer to the godswood. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake now and in front of so many people.

When they got there, Sansa could see Uncle Brynden was waiting with Lady Stark near the normal gate to the godswood; Ned standing with them and talking to Brandon in quiet tones. Sansa took notice of Ned’s posture and face, which gave her the impression he was asking questions.

There was a crunch of feet behind them, so she turned to see Lord Stark leading Lyanna to the godswood as well. Everybody was here for this.

Sansa kept her nerves down; having seen Lady this morning was helping her. In her mind, she imagined how restless she would be acting right now had she not.

While Lady Stark led the way, Sansa was gazing around to see if she could spot her direwolf.

Sansa wasn’t the first to see her, Benjen was, but nonetheless standing on the same ground as Lady made Sansa realise just how glorious Lady looked as a grown direwolf.

It looked like the snowy land belonged to her.

“Gods…” Cat said from beside her, breaking Sansa out of her staring.

“She’s beautiful,” she murmured to her sister.

Lady Stark stepped forward and approached Lady, moving her cloak out of the way so the absence of steel could be seen by everyone. “She knows me, and knows I have no steel,” she needlessly said to mainly House Tully. “As strangers, she will hesitate, so don’t be surprised if she acts differently. However, let’s begin with Eddard. He and Lady haven’t met yet, but he is my blood.”

When all of the attention turned to Ned, he becomes visibly uncomfortable and swallowed.

“Copy your mother, Ned,” Lord Stark urged.

Sansa tensed wondering how Lady would react to seeing him. Would she recognise him? Remember his scent? Would she flee? Would she stay?

Ned did as he was bid; showing Lady and the crowd that he carried no steel.

Lady, on the other hand, wasn’t as calm as she had been when Lady Stark approached. The moment when she caught his scent Lady backed away from Ned step for step.

_Lady, he has nothing to hurt you with. Don’t run. Please don’t run. We’re here, we’re together. Please don’t run._

Sansa saw Lady’s eyes meet hers, so she repeated the thought in her head.

_Please don’t run._

“Ned, slow down,” Lord Stark told him. “She didn’t like me to begin with either. Let her come to you.”

As bid, Ned didn’t take any more steps, but neither did Lady.

_Slow steps, Lady. You’ll be okay._

As Sansa had urged with her mind as a prayer, Lady was tentative and slow, eyes roving over Ned with a hint of distrust. The direwolf stopped once she was within minimal reach, enough reach for him to touch her nose.

_That’s it, Lady._

Lady Stark spoke from where Lady had left her. “You’re a new person to her, Eddard. Just the nose for today,” she advised softly.

They all waited as he did as told; one hand reaching out to touch the edge of her nose. Lady flinched but didn’t move otherwise.

“Too much of a falcon, Ned. She’s scared you’re going to claw her nose,” Lyanna remarked from where she stood.

But Lady Stark wasn’t having any of it. “Lyanna, that’s enough. We’ll be speaking later.”

Ignoring Lyanna, Sansa focussed on watching Ned petting Lady’s nose with a gentle hand.

_Well done, Lady._

Lady straightened up, effectively pulling her nose away from Ned. Sansa thought it was brave of Lady to do what she had done because it seemed she remembered what happened at Darry.

_No wonder she’s afraid of steel._

_She’ll remember me!_

“Ser Brynden,” Lord Stark said once Ned had returned to the watching group; Lady Stark beside Lady once more. “Do you still desire to meet the direwolf?”

Looking to her uncle, Sansa could see he was bracing himself but nonetheless stepped forward. “Cloak and the nose, Lord Stark?” he checked, glancing to the lord paramount.

“That’s correct.”

Squaring his shoulders, her uncle did the first one; opening his cloak and holding it there until Lady relaxed.

“That’s it, Ser,” Lady Stark commented, walking beside Lady as the direwolf took cautious steps. “Put out your hand.”

Uncle Brynden’s meeting of Lady went much smoother than Ned’s had gone. She’s been careful, but there was no backing away like she’d done last time. When Uncle Brynden’s hand made contact with Lady’s nose, he released a breath and was gazing at Lady with interest. “Impressive,” he muttered and turned his attention to Lady Stark. “Lady Stark, how did you manage to domesticate such a beast?”

Sansa wanted to correct her uncle, but in doing so would blow her cover. Silently, she gritted her teeth instead.

Lady Stark shook her head firmly. “She’s not a tame creature, Ser. She lives as she pleases, and until she is a danger to Winterfell she is welcome here.”

“Apologies, if I overstepped, my lady,” he apologised genuinely and lowered his hand from Lady.

“All’s forgiven,” Lady Stark replied. “It’s nothing short of irritating when people assume she is but an oversized hound. Admittedly, I take the matter a little too personally.”

Sansa felt a bump against her shoulder and looked to Cat standing next to her. “Cat?”

Catelyn had a caring smile and grasped Sansa’s hand. “I know you’re scared, Sansa. You told me yesterday. I’ll go first,” she volunteered quietly. Sansa could but watch as Cat did something compassionate for a girl she used to call a bastard in Riverrun.

_Cat…thank you._

And there she was, standing in the clearing and taking off her cloak and approaching a grown direwolf with brave steps and not looking back, following the instructions Lady Stark gave her. Catelyn reached out with a hand for Lady’s nose, but the direwolf dipped her head down resulting in a hand on the cheek instead. Lady’s nose on Cat’s shoulder.

“Gods be good,” everyone could hear her say weakly, hand shakily on Lady’s cheek. Lady sitting down without moving her head away.

Uncle Brynden started with alarm but Lord Stark shook his head. “She’s safe, Ser Brynden.”

“Worry not, Catelyn,” Lady Stark said somewhere. “Lady likes you is all, and I don’t mean as a meal,” she reassured with a jape, making Cat laugh weakly.

“Promise?”

Lady Stark approached Cat and put a hand on her other shoulder. “I promise, sweetling.”

For a short while, Cat remained there rubbing Lady’s cheek but eventually spoke. “Alright…alright. I think I’ve had enough now,” Cat admitted, slowly removing her hand from Lady’s cheek, who licked her hand. “You’re nice too, Lady,” Cat uttered softly with an improving tone.

_My turn._

“Thanks, Cat,” Sansa said to Catelyn as they passed one another in the clearing, Sansa wanted to shed her cloak without being prompted by Lady Stark, but that simply wasn't a choice. She's supposed to be scared.

Lady Stark lifted a hand. “Slowly, Lady Sansa. Stay there for a moment. Lady reacts differently to everyone.”

“Sorry, my Lady Stark, I'm a little nervous,” Sansa acknowledged and reminded herself that she will be seeing more of the Lady if she does the right thing in Winterfell.

So she waited for Lady Stark’s instruction, which didn’t take long. “Take six steps and slowly put out your hand.”

_Slowly, Sansa, slowly._

And so she did as told and looked into the eyes of Lady.

Then under her hand was the feel of Lady’s soft fur; the shape of the touch was the cheek. The weight of Lady’s nose on her shoulder, but Sansa’s focus was on the eyes.

_I love you, Lady. I won’t lose you again. I love you so so much._

Sansa could look into those eyes forever. The yellow of them had so much depth and feeling.

She could feel the joy Lady felt and thumbed Lady’s cheek, but that was all she dared to do in front of so many people.

They were together again and Sansa would savour every moment she had with Lady. Nothing would stand between them this time.

_I must step away._

Pulling back her hand, which Lady licked while pulling away, Sansa committed the moment to memory. Her fur, her eyes, her regal appearance, her lovely nature; all of it.

Step by step, Sansa backed away from Lady to rejoin the group, retrieving her cloak along the way.

_I’ll come back, Lady._

“Well done, Lady Catelyn, Lady Sansa. You did well,” Lady Stark told them both, remaining beside Lady. “You’ve all met Lady, and we know she doesn’t mind your presence if you encounter her this way. You’re welcome to spend time with her, but absolutely no steel on your person.”

“Understood, my lady.”

“Yes, my Lady Stark.”

“As you wish, my Lady Stark.”

Young Benjen ran from the group and gave Lady a fierce hug, who nuzzled him and knocked him onto his back into the snow making the young boy laugh with glee. When Benjen climbed onto her, Sansa was stock-still as she watched the playfulness before her. From atop her back, which Benjen had used a tree to get there, the young boy was rubbing her at the base of her neck making her rumble with pleasure.

Looking to an amused Lady Stark, Sansa commented from where she stood to watch. “He’s acting as though he’s done this a thousand times, my Lady Stark.”

“He wouldn’t be far from it, Lady Sansa,” Lady Stark replied, then turned to Sansa. “You’re still welcome to call me Lyarra in private. Simply because we’re not in Riverrun it doesn’t mean you need to be formal when we’re alone.”

“Thank you, Lyarra. ‘Sansa’ is alright if you wish it,” Sansa told the Lady Stark and received a nod in response. “I best rejoin my family, Lyarra,” she said politely and took her leave.

As much as she may desire to stand in the godswood and witness Lady and Benjen play, she couldn’t linger without making herself a person of interest for Lord and Lady Stark. Now that Sansa was completely certain that Lady, _her_ Lady, was alive and well, she needed to remember to, in the eyes of everyone, build her relationship with Lady but at a believable pace that wouldn’t raise eyebrows.

She was lucky that Lady had taken a liking to Cat, otherwise, she wouldn’t have had an excuse for the brilliant embrace with Lady she would be dreaming about tonight.

Going to the master-of-horse Sansa requested to borrow a horse, and was soon provided with a readied mount by Hodor, Walder actually, who’d been in her Winterfell childhood. A memorable but dim-witted stable boy. Accepting the reins, Sansa spoke. “Thank you, Walder. Could you assist me in the saddle?”

“Aye, my lady,” Hodor replied, lifting her up with an ease that would put some men to shame.

Getting herself settled, she looked to him with a smile. “That’s kind of you, Walder. Good day.”

Riding out through the courtyard and the southern gatehouse, Sansa kept to the outskirts of Winter town and continued on until she reached a frequented trail of moors, crests, trees and shrubbery.

In a few minutes Lady was beside her on the silent path, the horse not spooked by the presence of the direwolf.

It was a trail she knew but rarely used in her past, too occupied trying to survive.

But right here, right now, survival was not the utmost priority. Mother would want her to enjoy her time here had she known Sansa was a Stark.

Thinking about the lady she loved as a mother, the father who’d come to call her his daughter; uncle, sisters, brothers, friends, and now Lady.

She felt free.

She…

She was…

Happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the show calls Hodor 'Willis' in Bran's flashback, but I'm writing according to the books.
> 
> Who's POV do you want next chapter? Lyarra Stark/Sansa Stark or Jaime Lannister/Ser Arthur Dayne? Let me know in the comments.


	45. Workings of Weirwoods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa/Lyarra won by one vote, next time is Jaime/Arthur with maybe a dash of Tywin.

LYARRA STARK

_Day 23, 6 rh Moon, 276 AC_

Inside the Lord’s solar with Lyarra were her husband and Eddard, for a much-needed talk between father and son.

Rickard, sitting on the edge of the desk, had a hand on the shoulder of their son who was there beside him. “I don’t want what happened with Lady yesterday to bother you, Ned,” Rickard said to Eddard quietly. “She was shy of all Starks the first time, except Benjen and your mother. Lyanna’s comment was uncalled for and couldn’t be more wrong. The day you left for the Eyrie, I told you to remember that you are a Stark; to conduct yourself with dignity at the Vale and try to stay out of fights, but if you had to fight, win. ”

Eddard looked down at his hands. “I hope I didn’t shame our house, Father.”

“No, son, you did not,” Rickard told their son, making Eddard look up. “A Stark is a dignified person, who only fights when necessary; you did that. And I’m proud of you.”

Eddard looked like he was committing those words to memory. “Thank you, Father. I try my best.”

Nodding to their son, Rickard lifted Eddard’s chin with a finger. “I know you do, Ned, so don’t listen to Lyanna. She has forgotten what it means to be a true Stark, but you have not.”

Lyarra could see that her husband’s words had comforted Ned from earlier hidden fears. “I understand, Father.”

Smiling to their second son, Rickard moved his hand into Ned’s hair and gave it a ruffle. “Good, now go and enjoy your time with your siblings.”

He nodded to Rickard and was part way to the door before turning around curiously. “Will I be staying here at Winterfell now that Robert is going to stay at Storm’s End?”

“No, son,” his father told Eddard. “After a time you will be returning to the Eyrie to learn alongside Stannis Baratheon,” he explained and their son was a little confused but didn’t pursue it.

“Yes, Father,” he acknowledged but appeared unsure of himself. “What do I do now?”

It was heartbreaking for Lyarra to hear from her son.

Rising from her seat, Lyarra walked over to Ned and wrapped an arm around his back, standing beside him, making Ned look to her. “Play, spar, talk, whatever you wish, Ned,” she told him fondly. “Have some fun while you’re home again. Go on.”

There was a small smile playing on his lips and he nodded to her. “Yes, Mother,” Eddard replied, giving her hand a brief squeeze and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Turning to her husband, Lyarra closed the gap between them and was embraced by Rickard. “Oh, Rickard, I wish he didn’t have so much doubt about himself,” she muttered into his shoulder.

“He’s a good lad, Lyarra; he’ll come into his own in time.”

Lyarra looked to Rickard’s eyes with disbelief. “He’s been in the Eyrie for five years, Rickard. Is sending him back there the wisest decision after seeing what it’s done to his confidence? He used to tell Lyanna to stop showing off when she rode around him and Benjen as they sparred,” she reminded her husband. “She is without a horse now, but Ned doesn’t stand up for himself like he once did.”

She felt him tighten the hold for a moment as he gently kissed her. “I know,” he replied solemnly. “I know, but he will learn to do so again.”

Not understanding, she pulled back and rested her hands on his shoulders. “How? How will the Vale help our son, after returning home with less confidence than what he left us with?”

“I have addressed the matter with Jon Arryn and he informed me that Robert Baratheon was a domineering boy; now returning to the Stormlands. His brother, on the other hand, will take his place in the Vale and I’ve seen he is the opposite of Robert. Jon will be teaching both of them how to be strong lords, for Stannis could use such lessons as well as Ned.”

To say Lyarra didn’t like the thought of Eddard returning to the Vale was an understatement; she loathed it. She could only judge based on what she’d seen. Before her son had left for the Vale he stood up for himself, particularly when Lyanna was irritating him, but when she’d retrieved him from the Vale on her way to Riverrun, he’d changed.

No longer had he been the spirited but modest boy she’d seen leave Winterfell; he’d become a quiet boy who still had good manners, but to the degree that he didn’t actively pursue conversation if louder people were present.

_I don’t want my Eddard to be downtrodden by those like Brandon. Thank the Gods Brandon’s improved since having to shoot his own horse, which he lamed._

_Rickard said the Baratheon heir was a domineering boy, and Ned was close to this boy for five years?_

_And he says Stannis is the opposite of Robert?_

Lyarra sighed while Rickard held her. _Eddard being with a boy unlike Brandon will give him a chance to regrow his modest spirit._

_I want my Ned to be happy, that spirited and modest boy again._

Glancing to her husband and loosening her hold on his shoulders, Lyarra settled against him with her arms around his middle. “If Ned is to be confident he needs to be in the right place. If it’s the Vale, then so be it, but we won’t be leaving him unchecked again, will we?”

“No, Lyarra,” he replied, lifting her chin with a finger so their eyes met. “We will check and I will trust in your judgement. You will go once a year to make sure our son is thriving in all ways that matter.”

Using his shoulders to pull herself up, she buried one hand in Rickard’s hair as she slowly pressed her lips to his.

Rickard deepened the kiss and lifted her up onto the desk, hands leaving her hips to roam her back.

Sighing, she gave his cheek a chaste kiss and rested her hands on his arms. “Thank you. I want all of our children to do well. After what happened with Ned, it means much that I’ll see him improve, Rickard. Thank you.”

He pecked her forehead and smiled down to her. “I’ve always loved how protective you are of them, Lyarra. I wouldn’t keep you from seeing Ned grow after our mistake.”

“And Lyanna?” she asked rhetorically, seeking reassurance from her husband. “But I feel I am failing with Lyanna. I wish her behaviour wasn’t so difficult to resolve. What she said to Ned yesterday, to her own brother, was out of line.”

Her husband guided her off the desk and thumbed the length of her arms. “I doubt it is your fault, Lyarra. Benjen and Eddard are good boys; the boys without wolfsblood. Together, we will straighten out Lyanna,” he promised, cupping the back of her head. “Brandon appears to be a less of a concern compared to her.” Placing a chaste kiss to her forehead, Rickard stepped back. “I won’t be long, Lyarra, and I’ll return soon.”

Watching as Rickard left the Lord’s solar, Lyarra wrapped her arms around her waist; the uncertainty coursing through her blood.  Wandering over to the window that looked into the courtyard, she gazed out to the training square where Brandon and Eddard were sparring like brothers; helping each other to improve by exploiting flaws in technique and the like. Little Benjen watched them both eagerly as he sat astride the wooden railing nearby. Catelyn Tully joining their youngest in watching the boys spar; her sister, Sansa, not in sight.

From the corner of her eye, Lyarra spotted her husband walking up to the master-at-arms, Ser Rodrick, and having a hushed conversation, handing the man grown a key then proceeding over to the armoury with a few links of a chain peeking out of his doublet’s pocket.

Let it not be said that what transpires in Winterfell goes unseen. With the view that the Lord’s solar granted them, little occurring outdoors was missed with the exception of the godswood; a place of prayer and privacy.

Returning her attention to her sons, specifically Brandon, Lyarra recalled his performance as acting Lord of Winterfell. It hadn’t been a disaster, but there have been times when Brandon hadn’t known what to do and Lyarra was required to step up to solve it. The experience had been a learning curve for her son, who’d left Barrowton with an attitude of having what he wanted when he wanted.

The killing of his favoured horse and the inability to ride, as a consequence of his escapade on the King’s Road, had certainly led to a major attitude adjustment, although with many conflicts. The journey to Brandon becoming a half decent lord had been a rocky one, for there had been no shortage of disputes between mother and son on how a lord paramount handles the affairs of his realm. Often, Brandon had been of the mind that he didn’t need to be overly involved in the resolution between his subjects; the opposite of leadership.

Rocky to the point that Lyarra had needed to release her frustrations when Rickard returned, who now knew the extent of how much training Brandon required. And both of them were of the impression that Lord Dustin was more concerned with pleasing his future lord paramount than teaching the boy how a lord leads.

A flash of movement caught her attention as Benjen ran to the main gate into the godswood to join Sansa Tully’s side and the pair of them entered together.

_The mystery Tully…_

But the sight of Lyanna heading towards the Great Keep, in which Lyarra stood, being led by Rickard drew all of her attention. Walking away from the window, she silently prayed that this wasn’t going to become a shouting match while they had guests in Winterfell. Especially her future gooddaughter and some of the girl’s family.

Inside herself, Lyarra had a feeling of dread stir restlessly.

Taking a seat within Rickard’s solar, she listened to the approach of them both and could distinguish from the sound of their steps that Lyanna was suspect of what was happening. Rickard’s were those of calm and in control.

Finally, he returned with their daughter and gestured towards the seat in front of his desk.

She did not seat herself like a lady, as Lyarra had been encouraging her to do during lessons. Instead, she dropped herself into it like a common foot soldier. This was missed by neither Lyarra nor Rickard, whose eyes met one another after the act.

Closing the door behind him, Rickard sat in the seat behind his desk before setting eyes on their daughter; Lyanna. His gaze was patient but solemn. “I will ask you one question, Lyanna, and you will hear what I have to say.” She visibly tensed, eyes darting between her parents. “Why do you seek to embarrass our house?”

“What? Father, I don’t-!”

“Lyanna,” Lyarra spoke with a warning to their daughter. “Do not shout,” she told her assertively. Lyarra was not going to have her daughter cause a commotion.

Taken back by her mother’s interruption, Lyanna blinked with surprise and proceeded to look to them both again. “I- I don’t.”

Rickard had a subtle frown and continued looking to their daughter. “If that is true, Lyanna, you have a poor way of showing it. The journey south to and your stay at Riverrun, the King’s Road, the biting remark towards Eddard implying he’s not a proper Stark in front of the Tullys – that was cruel to Ned, Lyanna,” he listed to their daughter. “What would you call such behaviour, daughter, if not embarrassing?”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” she said, looking at a loss for words.

Lyarra straightened slightly. “We didn’t ask for an apology, Lyanna, though one is owed to Ned,” she reminded their daughter. “Explain to me, Lyanna, why you’ve had such an atrocious attitude lately?”

Their child pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “You made me kill Snowstorm,” Lyanna began with angry wet eyes. “You kept me here like a babe instead of going to the Vale wedding with Ned and Benjen,” she continued, her tone becoming angry. “And I don’t want to marry some man who will control my life!” Lyanna turned to Lyarra and she could see the resentment in her daughter’s eyes as she looked at her. “You want me to be a weak lady, who looks pretty and does what she’s told! You want me to be like _every_ lady I know.”

It was a punch in the stomach her own daughter would say that to her.

She was not weak, and her lord husband respected and always heard her opinions. They had their responsibilities, but otherwise were equals in all matters.

_How could you say that?_

Rickard slowly rose from his seat and placing his hands on the desk, taking a deep breath, eyes furious. “Lyanna,” he lowly snapped, almost snarling. “Apologise this instant.”

Lyarra stood up herself and approached their daughter, the emotional wound silently weeping from her daughter’s cutting words. “Despite your father’s opposition to you carrying and training with a sword, I am the reason you were permitted to,” Lyarra told her daughter, keeping her pain hidden. “Despite your future as a lord’s wife, I am the reason you were given the freedom to practise horse riding so much,” she divulged to Lyanna. “I spoke against your father’s decisions and he relented, and gave you those freedoms.”

Lyanna was wide-eyed within her seat, but Lyarra didn’t allow for that to make her waver.

“You are a privileged child, Lyanna. Almost every girl is limited to needlepoint, music and dance; the expectations of Westeros,” she enlightened her daughter. “And you think so low of me.”

The girl of ten was gaping. “Mother-“

But Lyarra simply didn’t want to be in the proximity of her ungrateful daughter. “Get. Out. Your chambers.”

In her seat, Lyanna was staring at Lyarra in shock. “Mother-“

Rickard gently grasped Lyarra’s shoulder, which made her feel reassured that she wasn’t alone in her emotions. “You heard your mother, Lyanna. Your chambers and without a sound.”

She watched her daughter leave the Lord’s solar, repeatedly looking back over her shoulder to Lyarra. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

But Lyarra refused to look at her daughter and break apart in front of her. “Leave.”

Once Lyanna closed the door, Lyarra’s husband and partner cupped her face and gave a delicate kiss to her lips, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs. “My love?” he murmured, looking at her with concerned grey eyes. “Tell me what you need,” he continued, placing gentle kisses upon her cheeks.

Her own daughter had ripped her heart out with ruthless words. Hugging herself tightly to Rickard, she wept her pain and the feeling of being a failure. “I wanted my girl to be happy. I wanted her to be happy. What am I doing wrong, Rickard? Please, Rickard, by the gods, what did I do to deserve such hate? I love her, but why is she doing this?”

His strong arms wrapped themselves around her, a hand guiding her face to rest against his neck and proceeding to comb through her hair, his lips resting against her forehead as he held her close. “Nothing, Lyarra. Absolutely nothing,” he told her in a whisper. “What do you need, my love?”

She nuzzled the nape of his neck and felt his kiss to the crown of her head. “Hold me,” she murmured softly, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Just hold me.”

And so he did; firm but gentle, and his lips never idle or rushed.

There she stood in the arms of her husband as her heart bled from Lyanna’s words.

It felt like a sennight.

A fortnight.

A moon.

A year.

A decade.

It felt like forever as her husband, her partner, held her flush against him and gently kissed her; a thumb wiping away her tears.

She took a shaky breath and looked into Rickard’s grey eyes with a storm hidden within them. He loosened his hold and bent down so their lips met; a slow kiss with a hand in her hair.

Sighing, she rested her head against his chest. His arms embracing her again. “A bath,” she murmured and felt him shift. “Pray and a bath,” Lyarra reiterated, stepping out of the embrace of her husband. “I need to be away from her, Rickard. Could you…?”

“Of course, my love,” he answered without hesitation, a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Take your time in the godswood.”

 

SANSA STARK

A short time ago, after commenting on her complete drawing of Lady, Benjen left Sansa alone with the sweet direwolf so he could continue watching his brothers spar in the courtyard; and so here she sat within the godswood.

Just the two of them; her and Lady.

Rising to her feet, Sansa left her drawing and supplies within a box, tucked against the trunk of a weirwood, and approached Lady who’d been playful with Benjen for the past hour or so.

She was important to Sansa, despite how short a time they’d known one another before. The presence of Lady filled a hole that had turned numb during the years after Eddard Stark had slain her. An absence she’d felt but hadn’t been able to identify the cause of; until reuniting with the remaining members of her family in Winterfell and hearing their stories about their direwolves.

That connection each of them had had with their respective direwolf.

Sansa no longer felt that absence.

She could think with calm and rationality now, after seeing Lady happy, hale and healthy with her own eyes.

But most of all, she felt peace.

Now next to Lady, she brought a hand up into the fur of Lady’s neck and could feel how soft it was. The direwolf turned her head and bumped Sansa’s shoulder with her nose.

For such a majestic and potentially dangerous creature, she was so kind, affectionate and gentle.

_I can’t hug you yet, Lady. It’s too soon. A few more days and I will give you the hug we both long for._

_There are men on the walls and they’ll talk about what they see in here._

Watching as the direwolf settled down to sit in the thawing winter snow, Sansa smiled and sat down next to the shoulder of Lady which blocked Sansa from the view of the main godswood gate and most of the godswood. Resting against Lady, head on Lady’s shoulder, she was gently petting her chest and listened to the quiet rumbling coming from Lady, making her laugh in the simple joy of the moment.

Paying no attention to the time, Sansa merely let it pass her by as she enjoyed this moment with Lady. There was something she longed within her mind to say aloud, even at merely a whisper. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and this is my home.”

Releasing a breath, Sansa gave Lady’s chest a final rub and rose to her feet to walk back to stand in front of Lady. She could have happily spent the whole day resting against Lady’s shoulder and listening to the pleased rumble of Lady, but it wasn’t a wise idea and too much was at stake.

It was too affectionate too soon for anyone else to see.

Standing in front of Lady was something that could be reasoned away and sound normal, such as realistic development of trust towards the direwolf.

Taking Lady’s maw into her hands and rubbing a cheek like Sansa had yesterday, but her whole hand this time, she looked into those yellow eyes and smiled to her Lady.

_I love you, Lady._

Looking into those yellow eyes and getting lost in them, Sansa no longer felt like she was standing on two feet but four, and yet still balanced.

Then she realised she could see herself looking up with her Tully red hair gently blowing in the wind. Strangely, her eyes were milky white.

Shock coursed through her body and a second later Lady was in Sansa’s view again.

_My eyes are Tully blue, not white._

_What is happening to me?_

“Lady?” Sansa spoke gently, wondering if Lady had felt what occurred.

Within her heart, Sansa felt love, not worry. And with her eyes, she watched Lady rub her nose fondly against Sansa’s hand.

Petting Lady’s nose in response, she smiled wryly. “You know what’s happening, don’t you?” she murmured rhetorically. “And yet you’re not concerned.”

Lady licked her hand.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’”

Walking in the godswood, with her small box under one arm, Sansa wandered its length and Lady beside her unless navigating around the larger weirwoods.

_Winterfell._

Going to the heart tree, the many leaves ensured privacy, and gazing at it, Sansa rested a hand on Lady’s long leg.

She would have to join her family for the midday meal soon.

Sounds nearby from the bathing chamber caught her attention and she noticed its high narrow windows being opened, allowing steam to pour out of it.

_We can’t be seen together, Lady. We’ve already been alone for a long time today._

Lady brushed her nose against Sansa’s shoulder and walked away towards the centre of the godswood.

And Sansa watched her go until Lady was too concealed by the weirwoods.

 

LYARRA STARK

After making sure to leave the high narrow windows open to prevent mould growth, Lyarra felt as refreshed as she could be after all that had transpired in the Great Keep.

She didn’t want to think about it.

Once outside and surrounded by the trees of the godswood, Lyarra could hear the padding of Lady’s paws on the snow becoming faint and was tempted to call out or follow. However, she wanted to pray to the Old Gods that she was doing the right thing concerning her children, that she was being a good mother.

Approaching the heart tree with her head bowed, Lyarra looked up when she heard the shifting of feet closer to the large weirwood. It was Sansa Tully taking in the details of the weirwood as she slowly walked around it, lifting her hand up to its blood-red leaves within reach. At the trunk of the tree was a small wooden box.

Lyarra didn’t intervene, not immediately at least. Instead, she remained where she stood and watched the young girl take in the appearance and texture of the heart tree with interested eyes. The Tullys prayed to the New Gods, so normally Lyarra would have finished her approach, however, Lyarra had always felt a maternal disposition towards this Tully. More so than the girl’s sisters and infant brothers.

That’s what brought forth the memory of Lady’s large scribblings which had to have been two moons or more ago.

She never learned who warged into Lady to do it.

 **S.S 286 AC – 312 AC**                                

**=**

**S.T 265 AC –**

Lyarra wished she had something appropriate to replicate those initials and years upon, but alas, she did not. She could have attempted using the ground, but compared to the dirt of the courtyard, the godswood still had a thin layer of snow and would be difficult to be read.

And she wasn’t in the mood to show them to Sansa right now. Right now, she was emotionally drained and wanted to pray for guidance on how to properly raise Lyanna. Brandon was improving, not easily, but improving. Eddard and Benjen were doing well; except the former’s lost confidence, which Lyarra knew her husband would help her make sure Ned regained it.

Despite this morning, she would not fail with her daughter. She would never forgive herself if she did.

She was a Stark by blood and marriage. And Starks don’t give up when matters become difficult.

Still standing where she was, Lyarra witnessed Sansa Tully retrieve her wooden box before sitting on a nearby log and proceed to draw the heart tree, a short distance away from it, carefully paying attention to the details.

Waiting until Sansa had finished a stroke and lifted her hand away from the parchment; Lyarra approached the girl and sat beside her. She didn’t know why, but simply that she felt the urge to seat herself beside this child of Tully colouring.

Lyarra was glad that she’d waited before making her presence known, for Sansa startled and likely would have ruined her picture had she been touching the parchment. Gently taking the girl’s wrist to ensure her supplies didn’t damage the drawing by accident, Lyarra looked at it and could see the shape of it was accurate; the finer details yet to be done.

“You have a good hand, Sansa,” she complimented the child, who looked happy and peaceful.

Giving a small smile, Sansa replied and inclined her head. “Thank you, Lyarra. I want to make sure I get it right.”

Lyarra smiled and released her soft grip. “I’m confident you will, sweet girl,” she said, rising from the log.

Sansa seemed to realise something and was quick to speak again. “Do you wish for me to leave?”

“No, Sansa. Remain there and continue to draw if you desire; all I ask is for quiet so I can pray.”

Positioning herself against the heart tree, Lyarra glanced up and made eye contact with Sansa, who nodded in response.

She closed her eyes and felt the bark touching her back through the fabric of her thick dress and cloak.

_Please, whatever it is that I have done to lead Lyanna astray, help me understand how to teach my daughter to become a respectable lady. My children mean everything to me. When they fail, I know I’ve played a part in their failures. What mistakes have I made that led to all of my children except Benjen having an issue of some extent?_

_Whatever they were, whenever they were; I hope my children will understand how things are meant to be. Brandon is almost a man grown and still has some matters to learn to handle. Help them become the best versions of themselves and ready to face the world when the time comes._

The rest of her prayer was wordless as she simply allowed for her emotions to wash through her; her hopes; her worries; her thankfulness; her pain. There was no order that her emotions and memories came in; they tumbled through her mind and into her prayer. She didn’t know if it would yield help for her, but all she could do was hope so.

Sighing, she opened her closed eyes and noticed that Sansa was a short distance away with her back to the heart tree.

_Respectful thing._

The thought made her eyes moist from the contrast to her own daughter, but she blinked it away and rose from where she sat upon the large trunk of the weirwood heart tree. On the log where Sansa had been previously drawing, Lyarra desired to approach and see the finished picture, but she would not simply help herself to the possessions of a guest. It was not the done thing.

Walking away from the trunk, Lyarra watched as a weirwood leaf fell free from a long branch of the heart tree and landed upon Sansa’s shoulder.

_What??_

From any other tree the falling of a leaf meant nothing, but from a weirwood, let alone a heart tree, was something else entirely. Weirwoods held their leaves and lived forever if undamaged and left to thrive where it grew. The free falling of a weirwood’s blood-red leaves was meaningful because such a thing would only happen when a special deed was complete or being done by someone.

Or so the story went.

And from Lyarra’s personal experiences of not seeing a leaf fall from a weirwood during her years, it was true.

Another fell, but into Sansa’s hair; the vibrant russet hair and the rich coloured leaf having some contrast between them.

There was something about this girl that the Old Gods apparently knew, but she did not.

Approaching Sansa, Lyarra watched as the child picked the leaves off herself and prepared to throw them.

“Wait!” Lyarra called out, running to Sansa and successfully stayed her hand from disposing of the red leaves. Sansa’s eyes were wide in surprise as the child looked up. “Don’t throw them away,” Lyarra told the girl and led her over to the log with that box of drawing supplies to sit down. “Never throw weirwood leaves away, Sansa, or they wilt.”

The young thing was utterly confused and Lyarra, with her hand, hold Sansa’s hands together, where the leaves resided, used her spare hand to point out to the snow powdered ground of the godswood. “Look at the godswood, Sansa. Look and tell me what you see,” she told the genuinely confused girl to do.

Lyarra watched as those Tully blue eyes searched the ground; occasionally landed on the browned fallen leaves of birch trees, but otherwise seeing nothing except snow.

“What do you see, Sansa?”

“Snow. Some dead birch leaves,” the child replied, gazing at Lyarra with confusion.

Nodding, she said what Sansa hadn’t. “But no weirwood leaves.”

“Why are there none?” she asked curiously.

Lyarra smiled at the politeness of the child despite being raised under the Faith. “Weirwoods are a special kind of tree, Sansa. They forever grow and never drop their leaves unless forced to by the gods; except when a person near them is doing a special deed.” Cupping Sansa’s hands with her spare hand, Lyarra gave them a gentle squeeze. “Keep them, Sansa. Their colour will never brown, and shape will never shrivel. The leaves of a weirwood have never fallen for me. Truly.”

The poor thing’s hands were shaking. “I never knew,” she spoke softly.

“Can I hold you, Sansa?”

Those blue eyes looked back with a shine in them as the girl of eleven nodded.

Being gentle, but a steady grip, Lyarra lifted her enough to help her up into Lyarra’s lap. Sansa was staring at those leaves with a shaky breath, and taking sympathy upon the girl, she whispered as she rubbed Sansa’s back. “They’re nothing to fear, sweetling. They’re special and the way the Old Gods acknowledge your deed by forcing a weirwood to drop its leaves. Whatever it mayhaps be. And if you haven’t finished it, I want to help you, Sansa.”

Sansa took a breath and Lyarra paused rubbing the child’s back. “Could you pass me my box, please?”

“Of course, sweet girl. This will be our secret.”

Lifting it up from beside her, Lyarra gave it to Sansa and watched as she opened a drawer containing her picture of-of Lyarra praying against the heart tree. There was another one; a drawing of Lady in mid-stride and gazing at something beyond the edge of the parchment.

“Sansa,…they’re beautiful.” _So well-drawn._

The child smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

Watching Sansa put the leaves in the bottom of the drawer and the pictures back on top before closing the drawer, Lyarra smiled back and gave in to an impulse; to lightly hug Sansa as though she was her own child.

It felt right.

It soothed her heart to be with a kind girl.

Brushing a stray lock of hair away from Sansa’s face, Lyarra was thoughtful.

Sansa’s maturity.

The hidden pain around Ned.

Lady's reaction to Sansa's name.

Lady’s scribblings.

The weirwood leaves.

The more she thought back on it, the more convinced Lyarra was that there was some kind of unknown truth within Lady’s scribblings. The years of a short life not yet lived, and the year Sansa Tully was brought into the world; each with a set of initials next to it.

 **S.S 286 AC – 312 AC**                                

**=**

**S.T 265 AC –**

_Sansa is a Northern name. Could the second ‘S’ mean Stark? Or Slate, Stane, or Stout? They're Northern houses._

_Am I creating something from nothing, simply because Sansa Tully's year is 265 AC and she's a strange girl?_

_Oh, Gods, this is a needle in a haystack question.  
_

Looking down to the child in her lap, Lyarra gave Sansa a gentle squeeze and could feel that Sansa had calmed down after being held and reassured that the leaves were nothing to fear.

Lyarra had no intention of spooking Sansa with peculiar questions while she wasn't certain Sansa was the right person. And after Lyanna saying something so insulting to her own mother, neither was Lyarra ready for a serious conversation about her thoughts. Possible though they were.

Sansa gave a minuscule of a squeeze back, which made an unbidden smile surface on Lyarra’s lips. It was tempting to continue holding Sansa, but Lyarra knew she had to let go and make her way to the midday meal. So as reluctant as she was, she let go of the sweet girl who stirred both her heart and mind.

“Come, Sansa,” she murmured to Sansa, causing the girl to look up. “It’s midday.”

Sansa glanced up to the partial canopy of the godswood and opened her mouth slightly. “I didn’t realise,” she admitted calmly, but a moment later there was a small smile. “It’s peaceful here.” She shifted on her feet with a bit of worry. “My family. My sister, Cat, and Uncle Brynden. I better go back to them.”

“Worry not, Sansa, they’ll be in the Great Keep for the midday meal or making their way there.”

The Tully child nodded but bit her lip. “Which way do I go?”

Lyarra smiled compassionately and took Sansa’s hand. “This way,” she answered gently, proceeding to lead the way. “You can get lost in the godswood.”

Sansa’s eyes were soft, the corner of her lips curving into a small smile. “Thank you, Lyarra.”

“Of course, sweetling.”   

_I wonder what her deed is supposed to be..._

_But I won't push her on what it is; not for a sennight at least._


	46. Ser Arthur Dayne's Squire

TYWIN LANNISTER

_Day 24, 6 rh Moon, 276 AC_

It had been six days short of a moon since the ending of affairs in the Vale, his son and heir, Jaime, remained with House Arryn for a sennight then departed to set sail for King’s Landing. The Lannister fleet had an array of ships for different purposes, including the _Prowling Lion_ ; a ship constructed to be House Lannister’s naval form of transportation but scarcely used. By land was swifter between Casterly Rock and King’s Landing; Tywin’s regular destinations.

A journey between King’s Landing and Gulltown, on the other hand, could be complete inside a sennight with favourable winds and the right ship.

Rising from his comfortable but practical seat in the Tower of the Hand, Tywin walked over to the window that showed him the sea. Hovering on the horizon was a tiny dot of red that had lingered there for the past sennight. He knew it was there because on that very ship he’d sent his sister, Genna, to Gulltown after the tourney to await his son there.

Gerion, his youngest brother, was not a sibling he considered shrewd; Genna, however, was and hence the reason for her journey.

His son would learn best from one of the shrewdest and witted Lannisters, and that was Genna. She would also have the patience that Tywin did not.

Teaching his son to properly read was one matter that involved a straightforward process without an absolute deadline, but teaching Jaime the nuances and the handling of insults at court was an immovable priority. His son needed knowledge on how to survive court before arriving and Tywin’s position as Hand of the King prevented him from having the time to train his son.

Over the years, Aerys kept Tywin close by having him as Hand of the King, despite the attempt Tywin made to resign in the year the king saw fit to force himself upon Joanna three years ago.

Tywin had only learnt about the incident after its occurrence.

Like Joanna, Jamie would be a target of Aerys’; except it would be casting insults and taunts at Tywin’s son in hopes of humiliating House Lannister.

When Tywin originally proposed to King Aerys the betrothal of Cersei to Prince Rhaegar, he’d also proposed having Jaime squire for the prince. Both offers were accepted, but later rebuked and mocked by Aerys.

And now, despite the further souring of matters between Tywin and Aerys, it was necessary for the good of House Lannister to bring Jaime to King’s Landing. He would begin his squiring for the youngest, but widely renowned, Kingsguard knight; Ser Arthur Dayne.

And the information would spread like wildfire in King’s Landing, before travelling throughout the Seven Kingdoms by courtiers telling their houses. The recovery of House Lannister’s reputation would begin, for Ser Arthur Dayne was nearly as respected as Ser Barristan Selmy and the other knights of the Kingsguard.

The result of Jaime, his son and heir, being the squire of Ser Arthur Dayne also contained negative aspects, because the Kingsguard knight, naturally, was located in King’s Landing.

Near Aerys.

Nothing could prepare a Lannister child for King’s Landing with Aerys on the throne; even Genna.

Grimacing, he looked back to the spot where the _Prowling Lion_ had remained stationary for a sennight, his son no doubt still learning from Genna. With the red sail clear to be seen and at full mast today, it meant Gerion and Genna, along with Jaime, intended to come into port and finally arrive.

He was not unaware of the incident at the Gates of the Moon, for he’d received ravens from Steffon and Gerion about the matter. Both explaining what occurred and Gerion’s including what he had told Jaime about conduct at the royal court.

Not days ago, on his return journey to Storm’s End, Steffon Baratheon made an appearance at the Red Keep to privately apologise for the dismal conduct of his heir. Tywin had given only a stiff nod; fighting with his allies was counterproductive. At least Steffon hadn’t attempted to insult his intelligence and conceal the incident’s existence from Tywin.

Aside from that, Steffon informed Tywin of Brynden Tully joining the fold which Tywin had consented to the possibility of in writing and given to Steffon at the tourney.

In his mind, Tywin dismissed the matter about Sansa Tully shortly after Steffon Baratheon’s apology; the slight was towards Lady Sansa, not his son or House Lannister. And if she couldn’t handle the words of a boy of fourteen, she’d stand no chance in King’s Landing should she ever set foot here in the sights of King Aerys II.

_Words of wit against the Queen of Thorns is one matter; the words of King Aerys II Targaryen will be cruel and humiliating since he’s aware of her betrothal to Jaime._

_Aerys spoke such words to my lady, Joanna, and there is no doubt in my mind Aerys will repeat history with my son’s intended wife._

_But Aerys won’t be taking liberties with this girl. Aerys killed Joanna with his liberties. If Sansa Tully is capable of withstanding the royal court’s hostility towards House Lannister I will ensure she is never alone. She is an asset thus far and House Lannister needs her._

Joanna had experienced the humiliation of the worst kind here in King’s Landing - Aerys openly asking her, in front of lords and ladies alike, if breastfeeding had ruined her breasts and proceeded to elaborate on how nice they once were.  

As humiliated as she’d been, Joanna was strong, kept her head high and had not broken apart. She’d been a force of reckoning, within a woman’s abilities.

And if it ever became clear to him that Lady Sansa could not withstand a similar situation once she began to enter womanhood, Tywin had the full intention of breaking the betrothal in favour for a lady with a stronger will once he found the replacement. A will equal to that of his late wife’s, Joanna.

If there was such a lady.

The next Lady Lannister will be a strong woman; like Joanna.

Paramount’s daughter or not, he would make sure his son was betrothed to a girl of mental strength.

The sennight Jaime and Gerion were due to depart the Gates of the Moon for Gulltown, Tywin received a raven, featuring no sigils or name, from the girl to be his future goddaughter. The content had not been words of whining or complaints about what happened in the Vale but of a situation far more urgent.

It was short and to the point but left a bitter taste in his mouth and Grand Maester Pycelle, a concealed ally who delivered it from the rookery, was confused for he didn’t know the identity of the writer.

 

_My Lord Hand,_

_Lord Baelish sails for Oldtown._

 

That was all it contained, and he knew from the handwriting that it was Sansa Tully’s; he’d had seen it enough times from her work at Casterly Rock during her stay. The neat and feminine font was a font he’d long looked at in Casterly Rock.

He’d received this raven a fortnight ago and hadn’t wasted the warning sent to him. Unlike most men when a situation allegedly goes awry, Tywin took a moment to ensure this wasn’t a mummery and recalled everything he’d catalogued about the girl.

One such thing had been her intention to kill Petyr Baelish at the tourney upon the Lannister secret being uttered; Tywin recalled her taking a knife partway out of her skirts before she spotted Yohn Royce heading her way.

Tywin, confident this was no deception, immediately wrote to Kevan and instructed for surveillance of the Citadel using a strong ship with a merchant’s flag; not the Lannister sigil emblazed flag. Kevan knew what resided in the Citadel and what could potentially be at stake.

The Lannister reputation.

It was damaged enough already, thanks to Cersei, who also resided in the Citadel.

He will not allow for Petyr Baelish to damage it further.

If his son and Lady Sansa prove themselves to Westeros, there was a potential for it to make the house rise again to a position of notability and respect. Should that happen - and he will do everything he can to ensure it does - there was a possibility of Lannister blood within the royal bloodline.

Chances of it happening this generation were bleak; he won’t attempt fooling himself with optimism.

However, Tywin was a patient man, mayhaps the next generation will succeed and he will live to see Lannister blood on the Iron Throne through marriage.

The Alliance had its appealing qualities, but the Heir to the Iron Throne had yet to deter Tywin from considering alternatives.

Since the tourney and one of his lone visits to Summerhall without any of the Kingsguard, Prince Rhaegar showed a shift in his behaviour; something he was prone to do after visiting the place of his fiery birth and the death of some family. The prince had played witness to his father’s paranoia, and unknowingly, shown Tywin’s sharp eye tiny nuances of discontent towards his father’s rule.

Frankly, Tywin’s endurance of the insults and mockery was grating on his nerves; not that he would ever give the lords and king satisfaction of seeing proof. He’d been taking it on the chin for years, and Joanna inadvertently dying as a result of Aerys’ liberties.

Why endure when the opportunity of a solution resided within the Red Keep?

A Lannister always pays his debts.

Lord Denys Darklyn’s coastal castle was suffering from the majority of ships changing their trade destination to King’s Landing in Blackwater Bay. The lord no doubt knew his castle was the equivalent of a sinking ship.

And Tywin knew it as well.

_I’ll begin correspondence to test the waters._

In the mean time, Tywin will need to act as he always does in King’s Landing; unfeeling, unaffected, with no vulnerability.

His son would make Tywin vulnerable if they fought amongst themselves. Public affection, had he ever been such a person, would be mocked; purely ignoring his son would yield unfavourable results and create tension for House Lannister.

Any attention he paid Jaime would require closed doors and discretion.

And so he stayed inside the Tower of the Hand instead of going to the port to greet his son. Genna would understand Tywin’s predicament and no doubt inform Jaime.

Everything was hinged on Jaime remaining in good relations with his father. As much as his son was the future of House Lannister, he was also the weak point Aerys would exploit and intentionally humiliate with the goal of producing a reaction of large proportions from Jaime or Tywin. As shown by the incident at the Vale, it was clear that Jaime had the same sentiment as Tywin in regards to humiliating or inappropriate behaviour towards the ladies of House Lannister.

Jaime would need to know how to handle such situations as Tywin had done multiple times concerning Joanna here in King’s Landing; his son raging as he had done in the Vale wasn’t an option here. And any fool would wager than Aerys will act towards Lady Sansa in a similar manner, in Jaime’s presence, to how he’d acted towards Joanna in Tywin’s presence.

Unless Cersei had a miraculous recovery and deemed in touch with reality at the Citadel, his son was all House Lannister had. But, Tywin wouldn’t wait for such unlikely news to reach him. She’d drugged her own brother in an attempt for sexual relations to fulfil her delusions.

Tywin knew his priorities.

He needed to focus on Jaime and solely Jaime’s development.

Writing two notes, he sealed them. One with the Lannister sigil, the other sealed with the Hand of the King.

“Marbrand,” he summoned his page, a boy with russet hair and of an age with Jaime. “Deliver one to the White Sword Tower, and the other to the _Prowling Lion_ at the harbour. I doubt you’re an idiot that can’t deduce who each is meant for.”

The vassal lord’s son scurried off out of the Hand’s solar leaving Tywin to silently watch his son’s arrival from afar.

His son needs to understand why he wouldn’t be present at the port of King’s Landing.

 

ARTHUR DAYNE

The temperature of recent mornings had made it ideal to train in swordsmanship and other forms of combat. For the past nine moons, the air was cool and crisp as the sun rose from behind the horizon, the nature of winter lingered as spring began to emerge.

But Arthur, a man grown of seventeen, could not find it within himself to enjoy the favourable weather to spar with his Kingsguard brothers and Prince Rhaegar.

He merely sat within the yard, donned in his steel but without the heart to practise his swordsmanship.

Since the return to King’s Landing from Tywin Lannister’s tourney, Arthur was profusely reminded why he felt like a fraud of a true knight; Queen Rhaella’s screams renting the halls of the Red Keep once more.

A true knight does not stand by, outside the doors of any woman’s bedchamber, while a woman within screamed as a man raped her. A true knight is supposed to protect women, and the weak and innocent.

And he was not doing that.

No, he’d stupidly volunteered his service to the King Aerys as a Kingsguard knight, before knowing this, and Kingsguard knight he now was.

The ceremonial vows of the Kingsguard clashed with the unsaid ones of true knights, for true knights don’t declare themselves as such men. The nobles and smallfolk of Westeros deemed with their opinions on whether or not you were worthy of the title, based on how well you fulfilled and kept to the morals of a true knight. Some men try to earn the reputation but fail; Arthur, on the other hand, succeeded and was now considered a true knight.

But now, as a Kingsguard knight, Arthur vehemently felt he was undeserving of such an esteemed regard as a true knight by the people.

The Tourney of Lannisport three moons ago had marked the point where he’d been in King Aerys’ II service for three turns of the moon. As a rather new Sworn brother, it meant his disappointment of the Kingsguard was neglected the opportunity to properly set within his mind; the absence of Queen Rhaella’s muffled screams had temporarily improved his perception of the Kingsguard.

In total, before the Tourney of Lannisport, Arthur lived only a moon where he was forced to hear the smothered screams of the queen, for King Aerys II spent the better part of the Second Moon on the Gold Road to Lannisport.

_And now I’m dragging an innocent boy into this horror of a city._

The energy and enthusiasm he’d seen in Jaime Lannister had been a balm to his moon’s turn of regret in joining the Kingsguard by free will. The severity of his regret had decreased with the distraction of the tourney where he was reunited with Prince Oberyn and got to speak with his sister, Ashara, privately.

But now that was gone, and here he was back in King’s Landing.

Arthur was that new of a Kingsguard knight, despite how well he fought like a warrior, who needed prolonged or outnumbered spars for him to break a sweat in the morning breeze.

Nonetheless, he did not deserve to wield Dawn and be titled ‘The Sword of the Morning’ by his family and Westeros at large.

Not when he repeatedly broke the silent vows of a true knight in King’s Landing.

Walking away from the yard and taking off his gauntlets and helm, Arthur noticed that his sister had been silently watching the spar between Ser Oswell Whent and Prince Rhaegar from above. As though she could feel his eyes, Ashara made eye contact with him and left the place where she had been watching. In a short moment she was beside him and without a word, the pair of them eventually reached the deeper part of the gardens; its high hedge walls and plentiful quantity of trees providing privacy and shade.

Turning his inwards attention to Ashara, Arthur noticed that she appeared to be happy with her lot in life. The news of becoming betrothed to a Northman, Eddard Stark, came as a surprise to Arthur, but at the time his sister had told him there was the lack of an obligated expression and more of a calm one. She was the Lady of their house now and had a say concerning her future; betrothals included.

As long as Ashara was content with the choices she made, Arthur wouldn’t speak against them. As a Dornish woman, she’d been taught household management and ruling the same as Arthur and his older, now dead, brother had been.

A Northern second son for a husband struck Arthur as strange, but the choice was hers and Arthur had faith that she knew what she was doing. From what she’d told him about Eddard Stark, he was a respectful boy three years short of being a man grown; and a spark existed between them.

If the Northman made Ashara happy, that was all that matters.

His gaze drifted to the Red Keep and he made a slight grimace but was quick to smother it in case there was a secret audience. Admittedly, it was rather early in the day for almost anyone but the knights to be awake; Ashara being the exception since she was due to sail to Starfall before midday.

“Arthur?” Ashara spoke softly, taking hold of his steel-laden arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I made a mistake, Ashara,” he admitted to her solemnly, making her curious and concerned. “And now I’m dragging an innocent boy into this wretched city as well.”

His sister took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I will always listen, Arthur, you know that.”

Sighing, he glanced around to ensure they were completely alone and was satisfied with his findings. Cupping her hand with both of his Arthur spoke with a quiet tone. “The Kingsguard,” he uttered in almost a whisper too soft to be heard. “It was a mistake.”

“Arthur…why?”

With his mouth open, he was about to answer when screams from the Red Keep spoke for him. Soon they were muffled.

It was the queen.

Hanging his head and balling his fists in anger, he kept the desire to punch something buried inside whilst in the company of his sister, who arrived yesterday. She did not know.

“Arthur, you know who that is, don’t you?”

Tempted to glare at the castle, but thinking better of it, he nodded with his eyes to the ground. “Queen Rhaella,” he whispered. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“What?” she said in shock but following his lead of soft speech. “She’s being raped, Arthur. Of course you can.”

His anger towards those blasted vows boiled to the surface. “I cannot!” he snapped heatedly.

Ashara stepped back as though she’d never seen this side of her brother; and it was true, for he’d never acted in such a manner towards Ashara.

Looking her in those violet eyes, Arthur hoped he hadn’t crossed a line with his sister that couldn’t be uncrossed. “Ashara,” he murmured, silently praying she could forgive him. “It’s King Aerys. There is _nothing_ I can do without breaking the Kingsguard oath.”

Ashara was speechless.

“I’ve heard her screams since joining the Kingsguard in First Moon, Ashara. The first time it happened I was about to barge in when my Lord Commander grasped my shoulder and told me my duty is to the king and the king alone. Protecting Queen Rhaella would be breaking my oath, sweet sister.”

Her expression changed to horrified.

“The whole First Moon, I endured and fought against my instincts every time he raped her. Second and Third Moon were filled with travel and the tourney. And since Fourth Moon, I’ve been reminded of the grievous mistake I made, and it can’t be undone,” he explained to his sister, eyes on the ground in shame of what a mockery of a knight he’d become. “This is my life now, Ashara, and yet the people call me a true knight; I am no such thing these days. I am no Sword of the Morning.”

His sister looked heartbroken by the news and she embraced his steel-clad body before proceeding to cry.

Wiping her tears away with his white cloak, Arthur thumbed her temple and watched as she looked into his eyes with a desperate glint in her own. “Brother, is there truly no way out?”

“I swore to serve for life,” he reminded her softly. “And there is not.”

She sighed slowly in something akin to defeat, hugging him despite the plate armour he wore. Taking a hand, she gave it a squeeze when she sighed again. In an unexpected moment, Ashara was standing upright and made eye contact with him. “Did you say ‘innocent boy’?”

“Yes, he’s to be my squire, sweet sister.”

Her eye lit up and there was a hint of hope. “To me and our little sister, you can still be The Sword of the Morning, Arthur.”

“How?”

He listened to her avidly. If there was a way he could somehow redeem himself, Arthur would.

Not looking away as she grasped his hand, Arthur listened to her lightened voice. “Teach him what you know about true knighthood, Arthur. Help him thrive and the moment they start talking about making him a member of the Kingsguard, send him home. Protect him from making the same mistake. If you can’t protect Queen Rhaella, protect him. Whoever this boy mayhaps be.”

“Jaime Lannister,” he answered, squaring his shoulders and looking to his sister, it seemed she had similar thoughts to his intentions, but Arthur hadn’t considered it full redemption, partial mayhaps. “I saw his potential at the tourney, so I approached his father. He truly wants to become a knight.”

Ashara smiled with a look of amusement, but Arthur didn’t know why. “Ashara?” he asked a question unspoken.

“You will like him, Arthur.”

“Why? He’s enthusiastic and determined I’ll admit, but what makes you say that, sweet sister?”

The shine remains in her eyes when she spoke. “His betrothed was insulted in the Vale and he wanted to defend her honour when Robert Baratheon spoke as though she was a common whore. Jaime Lannister was furious,” she recounted to Arthur, making him curious. Ashara chuckled. “Hear Me Roar.”

_Hmm, the Lannister words. He’ll need to control his anger here in King’s Landing. If the King is vindictive enough towards the Lord Hand, he’ll target the man’s son._

Focussing on Ashara, he addressed the matter. “Is he normally like that?”

“I met him at the tourney, but the Vale was the only time he became that angry,” his sister divulged with no obvious dislike. “Angry at all, really,” she added.

_Notable insults then. He will need self-control in King’s Landing nonetheless._

They walked amongst the fauna of the gardens for some time. This morning was his time for training but Arthur simply wasn’t in the mood, he’ll train tomorrow. Glancing to his sister beside him, Arthur could see she had a small smile. “I’m glad to see you happy again, Ashara.”

“I’m happy because there is a way for you to be, Arthur. You can still be a good man, our Sword of the Morning, despite the circumstances,” she replied, looking to him with a genuine smile. There was the pattering of running feet approaching them.

Returning the smile, he lifted her knuckles to his lips and looked towards the sound nearing the pair after letting go.

It was a boy with russet hair and of an age to Jaime Lannister. Arthur recognised him for who he was; Addam Marbrand, the Hand of the King’s page, who’d frequently navigated the hall of the Red Keep since Tywin Lannister returned from Casterly Rock after the tourney. He didn’t have the gold hair like those of House Lannister, so the King typically left the boy unhindered from harsh remarks and the like. One would assume he was a Riverlord’s son with that russet hair.

“Good morrow, Addam,” Arthur greeted the boy kindly, who smiled and bowed.

“Ser Arthur Dayne. Good morrow,” he replied hastily and looking between two letters before passing one to Arthur; the letter sealed with the Hand of the King. “Good morrow, Lady Dayne,” the boy said to Ashara politely.

“Good morrow, Addam,” she spoke kindly to the boy, who didn’t seem to know how to say he needed to leave.

His fidgeting with the other letter gave his predicament away, so Arthur was merciful and gave the boy an out. “I’m sure the Lord Hand has much for you to do, young Addam,” the knight commented to him kindly.

The boy gave a rushed bow and was gone again in a flash.

Breaking the seal of the letter, Arthur’s eye caught Ashara looking at him with a thoughtful smile, but she merely shook her head and looked to the letter. Continuing with opening the letter he read the contents inside.

 

_Ser Arthur Dayne,_

_The anticipated vessel of Jaime Lannister has been sighted this morning approaching the city to make port._

_Your squire has arrived and shall be ready to face the nature of King’s Landing’s court._

_He will have company upon disembarking._

_Hand of the King_

_Tywin Lannister_

Ashara was the first to speak. “Why did he bother to tell you? He organised for his son to be your squire, didn’t he?”

“Not quite, sister. I requested that Jaime Lannister squired for me; he is determined and I saw someone who could be a good knight; possibly a true knight,” Arthur informed her, turning to meet her eyes. “You haven’t seen the king and the Lord Hand in the same chamber, Ashara. And should Lord Tywin venture down to the harbour King Aerys would seize the opportunity to humiliate him before the court. If King Aerys hears that Lord Tywin _didn’t_ go down to the harbour to greet his son; that’s another opportunity for the king. The Lord Hand is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t; unless people keep their mouths shut about Jaime Lannister arriving.”

“That’s awful…”

Not trusting himself to speak without incriminating himself, Arthur nodded and soon made up his mind. There was still Arthur’s scheduled training time left, even if he wasn’t using it for that purpose right now.

“I’ll go,” he said simply, turning himself and his sister towards the Red Keep, for they were deep in the pitiful godswood now.

“Go where?”

“The harbour.”

Ashara nodded from beside him. “I understand the need for a low profile, and me going with you won’t help; we're a prominent house,” she needlessly commented to which Arthur nodded. “I’ll stay at the Red Keep while you greet him, Arthur. Your white cloak and armour will draw enough attention as it is,” she pointed out, picking up the front of her skirts slightly. “I’m sailing by midday. Making sure everything is packed would be a good time investment.”

Parting ways with Ashara, Arthur took the servant passageways that drastically reduced his time. Not only that but if several courtiers and the like saw Arthur making for the harbour the same time Jaime Lannister appears in King’s Landing, it wouldn’t that difficult for King Aerys to work it out; increasing paranoia or not.

Personally, Arthur suspected that the king was envious of his Lord Hand’s successes at court and in personal matters. No one could think about the name ‘Castamere’ without immediately thinking about the name of the song connected to it. Lord Tywin had dealt with the uprising of Tarbeck and Reyne at such a pace that no one would logically want to cross the Warden of the West and earn his ire. House Lannister was a wealthy house; its military was strong, and until very recently the children of House Lannister had a good reputation.

From what little Arthur had seen of Jaime Lannister at the Tourney of Lannisport, he felt that the boy didn’t deserve to have the shame of his sister’s behaviour heaped upon him as well. Compared to what he’d heard about Cersei Lannister, Jaime had behaved with good manners and thoughtfulness at the tourney; very unlike his twin sister’s alleged acts.

Reaching the port, it was easy to spot the Lannister ship; its loud colours and the very clear appearance of wealth from the gold detailing of the vessel.

And standing on the deck with his hands gripping the railing tightly, big smile and bright eyes, was Jaime Lannister who was looking straight at him.

The smile was contagious.

_So much spirit. I shall preserve it as much as I can, for the nature of King’s Landing can be cruel._

 

JAIME LANNISTER

_Finally!_

_I’m here!_

_Yes! Yes! Yes!_

_Gods be good, it’s Ser Arthur Dayne himself!_

Jaime could hardly hold it in, knowing he was grinning like an idiot.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

He’d spent a sennight just out from the reach of King’s Landing to be taught by Aunt Genna how to deal with stuff that would make him angry or find insulting.

_Ser ARTHUR DAYNE came here to meet me? Father just said Uncle Gerion would bring me to the Red Keep. King Aerys sounds like an arse._

_Who cares? Ser Arthur Dayne came way down here just for me?_

_There’s Dawn’s handle just above his shoulder._

_Wow…_

A familiar chuckle broke his attention from the Kingsguard knight. Uncle Gery holding the letter Father had sent not long ago; and Addam, _Addam,_ had been the one to deliver it. It had an awkward apology from Father to Jaime saying that he wouldn’t be able to greet him because there was a Small Council meeting this morning.

“Come along, Jaime,” Uncle Gery said, putting a hand on Jaime’s shoulder and leading him to the plank onto the jetty where lots and lots of people were walking. “Slow down, nephew,” was said with a laugh.

_The Sword of the Morning._

_Just for me?_

_I won’t fail you._

In the letter from Father, it said Jaime was going to sleep in the Tower of the Hand.

_Why couldn’t it be in the White Sword Tower, that’s where the knights go._

When they reached Ser Arthur Dayne, Jaime bowed out of respect and looked up when there was a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Jaime Lannister. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” the knight said to him with an amused smile. “Keep close while we go through the River Gate and to the Red Keep. I don’t want my squire to disappear before his first day is through.”

He nodded back eagerly. “Yes, Ser Arthur.” _No problem, Ser Arthur Dayne._

Doing exactly what he was told, Jaime followed the lead of Ser Arthur through the streets of King’s Landing. Lots of the people they walked pass looked worse than the poorest people in Lannisport.

_Why are they so poor?_

_I wish I could help them._

_Once I’m a knight I can. Yes, I’ll do that. Become a knight and help the weak and helpless._

The more they walked through King’s Landing, the harder he found it to stay quiet about the smell. Eventually, he couldn’t. “Gods be good…”

“The whole city smells, but after visiting Lannisport I do understand the shock to you, Jaime,” Ser Arthur murmured, guiding Jaime through the bustle of the streets. “We’re nowhere near Flea Bottom; the worst of it.”

There was a snort from behind Jaime, followed by Uncle Gery muttering “You can smell the shit from five miles away.”

Jaime coughed a laugh and focussed on remembering looking at a map. “Flea Bottom is near The Hill of Rhaenys, the hill further north, isn’t it?” he commented to Ser Arthur Dayne, who nodded while watching where they were going. Looking around he spotted the towers of the Sept of Baelor, which meant they were a bit away from Visenya’s Hill and closer to Aegon’s High Hill; the hill where the Red Keep was built.

They were getting closer to the Red Keep while walking through The Hook, a street that was more comfortable to walk on than the rest of the city so far.

It was starting to get really crowded on this street and he was sure someone just grabbed something from his breeches’ pocket. Touching the pocket, it was now empty of the silver and red ruby tree pendant he’d brought in Gulltown when no one was looking.

“Hey!” he shouted, chasing after the girl who tried to be sneaky but ran after Jaime shouted out. “Give that back!”

He ran with all he had to catch up with the girl not much younger than him. Jaime was sure he could get to her.

“Jaime!” Uncle Gery called over the din, the girl just took a corner and he almost reached it too. “STOP THIS INSTANT!”

The stern shout from Uncle Gery stopped Jaime stiff in his tracks. Never, _ever_ , had Uncle Gery sounded so serious or shouted at him.

_She got away. Curse her, damn her. She got away._

Balling his fists, shaking his head, looking down and swearing in Low Valyrian, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a gentle voice. “That item meant a lot to you, didn’t it?”

Looking up from the path, Jaime looked up and saw the violet eyes of Ser Arthur Dayne and the sad smile on his face. Taking a breath he nodded in defeat, his voice quiet. “Yes, Ser Arthur. It did.”

The knight took Jaime’s hand and sometimes, for a second, looking at the people passing them. “If there is anything special you want to protect, give them to your uncle or me, Jaime. There are more thieves here than Lannisport.”

Swallowing and angry that he lost it, he shook his head to Ser Arthur. “That was it. There’s nothing else in my pockets.”

Ser Arthur sighed and put his other hand under Jaime’s. “I want you to try something for me, Jaime,” he said with a voice not as soft as before.

“Yes, Ser Arthur?”

“I know you’re angry and you have every right to be,” he said like he was sorry about it. Jaime nodded at his words. “Take a breath for me.” Jaime obeyed. “That’s it. And slowly let it out.”

He obeyed again.

“Now think about my questions in your mind for me,” Ser Arthur instructed him. “What’s around you? Do you know this place? What will stop it happening again? Can you see everything when angry?”

Doing as he was told, Jaime realised a lot of things could have happened. He could have crashed into someone and gotten hurt. He didn’t know anything about King’s Landing except a map. Breech pockets weren’t a very good place when there are thieves; he needed a coin purse or something.

He felt really stupid now.

“Now put your anger away for me. I’ll show you something for that later,” the knight spoke quietly. “Let’s get you to the Red Keep, Jaime.”

Following Ser Arthur back to Uncle Gery, Jaime turned to his uncle when they reached him. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he apologised to Uncle Gery, who patted his back for a moment.

“What did you lose, Jaime? We could find another one mayhaps?”

He didn’t think it was a good idea to tell his uncle about his present for Sansa; she’d been scared in the Vale when she was honest to Jaime about the Old Gods. So he just shook his head. “I don’t think we could, Uncle,” he lied. It was something they could have someone make, but he would keep her secret. “It was a present for Sansa. She would have liked it, but it’s gone now. I’ll get her something else another time.”

Not wanting pity from his uncle or Ser Arthur, Jaime paid attention to the castle they were getting closer and closer to until he could see the gold cloaks; the City Watch of King’s Landing. The men were walking along the two sets of high walls that protected the Red Keep within them.

Not liking the quiet, Jaime asked something he always wondered about Ser Arthur Dayne. “Ser Arthur? Can I ask you something?” he said, keeping the anger in like the knight had asked.

“Yes, Jaime?” the knight replied, looking to Jaime once the crowd thinned out.

“Who inspired you to become a true knight?” he asked with curiosity, eager to hear the answer.

Ser Arthur checked ahead of them before looking back to Jaime. “My ancestors, Jaime. The previous Swords of the Morning; who served in war and protected smallfolk and nobles alike.”

“Would they be proud of you? I think they would be,” he replied, answering his own question.

The Kingsguard knight didn’t act the way Jaime thought he would; Ser Arthur looked away before he spoke. “I hope so.”

Watching the way they were going, Jaime worked out they were going in the direction of the yard. Uncle Gery following them until they were close to the Tower of the Hand. A hand on his shoulder made Jaime stop and look to Uncle Gery. “Uncle?”

“Stay with Ser Arthur and act with honour. Alright, Jaime?” his uncle asked kindly.

“Yes, Uncle Gery. I will,” he promised, hugging Uncle Gery’s middle. “I’m sorry I ran off.”

Uncle Gery knelt down and ruffled Jaime’s hair. “I understand, but don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Now go and walk with Ser Arthur; I think he wants to show you something.”

Turning to Ser Arthur, Jaime looked to the knight and came over and followed him into the yard and towards the master-at-arms; a man watching a spar between a relative of Sansa’s, Ser Oswell Whent, and the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen.

Keeping by Ser Arthur’s side, Jaime listened as the knight greeted the man. “Ser Willem, do you have a sparring sword about the size of a short sword?”

“We have one spare in the armoury, Arthur,” Ser Willem replied politely and glanced at Jaime. “And who would this be?”

Jaime wasn’t exactly sure how to answer, but as he was about to Ser Arthur spoke first. “My squire as of today. Ser Willem, this is Jaime Lannister. Jaime Lannister, please meet Ser Willem Darry, our master-at-arms,” he introduced them to one another, so Jaime held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ser Willem,” Jaime said, ignoring the way that the master-at-arms was looking at him kind of cautiously.

Something above Jaime got the man’s attention for a second before he did take Jaime’s hand. “Pleasure, Jaime Lannister.”

“Jaime,” Ser Arthur said kindly. “Could you retrieve the sparring short sword I mentioned, as well as a sparring broadsword? There’s padded leather armour for you to put on as well.”

Nodding, Jaime made his way to what was clearly the armoury.

_I’m his squire. He said so!_

 

ARTHUR DAYNE

Watching until the young boy was out of hearing range, Arthur turned to Ser Willem and glared. “What was that about?” he demanded of his master-at-arms. “He was polite and I wouldn’t have made an undeserving boy my squire, Ser Willem.”

The master-at-arms looked away for a moment before making eye contact with Arthur. “I had a right to be wary, Arthur; especially after what I’d heard concerning his twin sister.”

“You didn’t even give him five minutes to prove himself,” Arthur hissed to keep his words from being heard by Jaime. “He noticed the way you hesitated; I saw it in his eyes. Give the boy a chance. He’s a pleasant one, I assure you,” Arthur pointed out, irritated that Darry decided what kind of person Jaime was without getting to know him first.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught Arthur’s attention, and he saw Jaime was returning with the requested sparring swords and the shields that would be necessary later. He seemed to be slightly struggling with the weight of it all, so Arthur went over and took the shields from Jaime’s pile and putting them aside for now; the boy smiling in thanks.

_He handled Ser Willem well, but I wish it hadn’t been necessary._

_I suppose courtly scenarios were all he’s been warned about considering his pursuit of that thief earlier._

_The desire to save a gift meant for another is understandable. He’s stowed that anger well though._

Quickly deciding how to begin, Arthur accepted the sparring sword from Jaime and stood beside him but with the necessary space between them. “Let’s see your forms, Jaime, I know you know them,” he instructed, paying no attention to the master-at-arms or the other two presently sparring.

Going through them, Arthur watched Jaime’s movements and saw little that needed correction. The boy already knew a fair amount concerning swordsmanship, but they went over each stage so Arthur was certain Jaime hadn’t gotten lacklustre since the tourney. However, considering how Jaime had good precision and enthusiasm at the tourney, Arthur doubted that the boy’s performance would have lessened.

All the same, making sure to catch a flaw and correcting it was important; it ensured fluidity and technique further on.

Near them, Arthur saw someone set down something on the ground and realised it was Ser Gerion Lannister.

Jaime seemed to notice the shift in Arthur’s attention and walked over to his uncle. “Uncle Gery? What’s that?”

The uncle of his squire flipped the latches of the chest and opened it in front of his nephew. “Armour, Jaime. Your father commissioned it so you could train to the best of your ability.”

“Thanks, Uncle!”

Looking at the pieces, Arthur could see the Lannister colouring clearly and watched as the boy stared at it with wide eyes and a smile. Shortly after, Jaime turned to Arthur and asked if he could change into it. Seeing no harm in granting the request, he assisted Jaime in getting the padded leather off because the boy was so excited and struggled.

Turning to Ser Gerion, Arthur nodded to the man who did the same in return and Ser Gerion ruffled the boy’s hair before leaving for the Tower of the Hand.

It didn’t take too long for Jaime to change into the Lannister styled plate armour and he was grinning once ready to resume his practise with Arthur. But Arthur hadn’t expected what Jaime said next. “I swear I will be the best squire you ever have, Ser Arthur Dayne,” he avowed with conviction.

The comment showed Arthur just how young the boy truly was. He’d no doubt been taught how to handle hard conversations in court, considering Ser Willem’s behaviour earlier, but the innocence of this boy shined brightly light a diamond held up to the sunlight.

_And I will protect it for as long as I can._

Since they were on the topic of armour, Arthur decided it was ideal to demonstrate with his own armour that there are some parts that require the help of another Kingsguard knight to be put on and off.

With permission, he proceeded to check that Jaime had his Lannister armour in place properly, helping the boy when necessary but leaving it to Jaime when assistance wasn’t required. Once they were complete Arthur received a big grin from his squire, making him want to see more of them. And once they were holding the sparring swords again, the happy, open expression of excitement was back and Arthur could feel a smile emerging on his own face.

Jaime, it appears, had already received thorough training with the basics, including the use of a shield simultaneously. Wanting to see just how far along the young boy was with the use of a short sword and shield, Arthur made a suggestion. “How about a basic spar, Jaime? I want to see what you can do.”

The return of the grin was enough of an answer for Arthur.

Going through the motions, Arthur noticed how Jaime was at ease doing it. Had he been testing his young squire with more intensity there was no doubt there would be some struggle but not a great deal. Deciding to entertain the thought, he picked up the pace and watched how the boy handled it.

Quite well, honestly.

It was apparent to Arthur that Jaime was already proficient with the basic sparring, so chose to change their lesson to using different moves in a chain without wasting any energy by utilising the momentum of their swords. To the knight, it was clear that Jaime was doing his best with a bright look of determination when proceeding to try it.

This was something new to Jaime, Arthur could see that much, but he wasn’t complaining when he struggled with a particular combination.

Jaime getting this far in his performance with the sword was more than to be expected for a boy his age, which made Arthur glad he’d decided to request Jaime Lannister to be his squire. He took new information in well and was not the kind of boy to complain when things got difficult.

Arthur knew he would look forward to witnessing Jaime grow and, in time, earn his knighthood.

Choosing to lightly spar against Jaime while encouraging the boy’s use of the new chain technique, Arthur was deliberately slower moving his sword so the boy had a chance to employ the technique properly. This went on for a little while with a brief rest and drink of water between spars, as well as Arthur providing feedback.

As they went on and Jaime was getting a hold of it, Arthur commented and saw the way Jaime’s eyes absolutely lit up with happiness and pride. To see such a response lightened Arthur’s own heart of some weight of what happened here in the Red Keep.

_I will be the best mentor for this boy that I can be._

_Pursuing to have him as my squire was a good decision on my part; he’s admirably determined and makes King’s Landing just that little easier for me to bear._

While taking a rest, he spotted Ashara smiling down to him with a knowing expression. If she was down here, Arthur was sure she would be telling him she told him so about liking the boy.

Looking to Jaime and seeing how tired he was becoming, Arthur led Jaime into the shade and loosening the clasps of the Lannister armour where help would be needed. Going to speak, Arthur was beaten by Jaime turning to him and looking out of breath. “That was amazing! I’ve never done that before.”

Taking off both his and Jaime’s helms, Arthur chuckled and shook his head. “That was only the beginning, Jaime Lannister.”

The boy had a large grin and, to Arthur, Jaime’s excitement was almost palpable. Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Arthur witnessed the shine of happiness in Jaime’s eyes, which drew a smile to his own face. “I’ll be the best squire you ever have. I promise!”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He truly didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end folks, just the beginning. I'll do my best to post part 2 "A New Game Begins" soon.
> 
>  
> 
> StarlightAsteria, I hope I did your favourite bromance service.


	47. Sequel: Chapter 1 - Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've made the story into a series because I need a new summary to fit the story progression.
> 
> Chapter 1 of 'A New Game Begins'

PETYR BAELISH

_Day 1, 7 rh Moon, 276 AC_

Following and carrying the books of a bastard acolyte, who more-progressed scholars in the Citadel looked down upon, Petyr kept his face and smirk concealed from the view of all the future maesters they passed. It would not serve him well for them to remember his face. The bastard acolyte’s memory didn’t matter. Petyr never told him his name.

Hiding his face complied with one of the ten private rules he’d developed upon joining the Small Council at the beginning of Robert Baratheon’s reign.

_‘Have friends, but be discrete about it.’_

 

It was exactly two moons since he’d arrived here and placed in the cell next to Cersei Lannister.

His first fortnight here was spent locked up next to the impulsive, delusional girl.

However, with the right behaviour, planting of seeds, and obtaining information, he’d been deemed a boy unjustly sent to the Citadel for a treatment he didn’t require.  

Naturally, after the unsuccessful attempt to improve Cersei’s position through subtle manipulation, his first preference was to return to the Fingers and play the good little son to his father where he could show his prowess with money.

Such an act would improve his place in the game of thrones slightly; word would spread within the Vale, and, in a few years, he would be on the Small Council once again, if Lysa Tully whispered the suggestion in the ear of her future husband. Jon Arryn.

Lysa would be a good pawn, but someone was interfering with his letters to her. She was sending no replies.

The desire to leave the Citadel was denied by logistics due to his lack of gold, silver, or even coppers. No man of business would sail to Gulltown or the Fingers unless there was a benefit for them to do so. Without money, Petyr couldn’t offer the incentive for a vessel to give him passage to the Vale.

Effectively stranded here, unless he wanted to become one of the smallfolk, his next choice was to capitalise on his presence here in the Citadel of Oldtown.

After sending a letter to his father to ask for help home; Petyr _was_ only a boy of eight, but still his father’s heir.

With no money and no way to the Vale, Petyr had posed himself as a boy interested in being enlisted as a novice of the Citadel. A novice was a low-profile position that gave him the freedom to roam Oldtown as he pleased, while accommodated and fed within the Citadel.

Most men didn’t look at him twice after his expression of supposed interest, for they considered him too young. So Petyr applied another one of his ten private rules for success.

_‘In order to get people to do what you want, you must first know what they want.’_

 

Since he hadn’t been dismissed from the Citadel entirely after the release from treatment, Petyr made good use of his circumstances and perused the records of Westeros to grasp a better understanding on his, and of Westeros’ situation at large. While doing so, he used a sharp eye to find a potential pawn.

And find one, he did.

Among the novices was the mocked bastard, who appeared to be struggling with the more intricate details of economics and math.

Those were Petyr’s most proficient topics.

The situation couldn’t have been more perfect.

Before the end of Fifth Moon, the bastard novice became an acolyte with a yellow gold link to show for it; the link signifying economics and math.

And Petyr? He had a grateful acolyte indebted to him that Petyr pretended to befriend.

By no means did it provide a way home, not yet, but with an acolyte bastard determined to repay him, Petyr would return home given some time.

Acolytes trained in letters in the Scribe’s Hearth of the Citadel, paid by smallfolk of Oldtown for services such as reading letters and writing wills.

And the bastard? Well, what he lacked in math earlier, he excelled in with letters; so he paid Petyr a portion of the money he earnt in the Scribe’s Hearth and offered to give Petyr anything within his power as repayment.

The bastard praised Petyr to the maesters and, by the Citadel, Petyr was made a novice. A position with no maester vows, food provided and a roof over his head; an easily abandoned position if the tide turned in Petyr’s favour.

Acolytes typically treated novices as though they were slow-witted. However, Petyr never retorted to the insults and taunts; such behaviour served as a means to keep his profile low.

He ignored such slights in his previous life, and it worked well to his favour; so he did the same here in the Citadel. A place he hoped to leave sooner than later.

During his freedom from the treatment cells he and Cersei Lannister had been placed in, Petyr had not given up on his pursuit to indebt House Lannister to him through Cersei. Part of his duties as a novice involved delivering meals to the treatment cells, and he witnessed the daughter of Tywin Lannister become increasingly desperate each time he handed her food.

A duty he fulfilled since the beginning of Sixth Moon. It was now Day one, Seventh Moon.

Like always and true to form, Cersei spent much time blustering and making demands, adding insults as she spoke. However, Petyr never allowed it to bother him; he wanted favourable results.

The first four sennights she’d spent in her cell must have worn her down slightly, only slightly, but enough that she demanded he told her how to get out after seeing him free for the last two sennights of Fifth Moon.

When dealing with her, he certainly used another private rule of success.

 

_’Always appear to be friendly and helpful.’_

He’d obliged her demand, but she wasn’t interested in hearing all of his _many words_. Insulting him again, she turned away like a caged lion, but in his mind, he brushed it off.

So he added using another private rule in her presence.

 

_Plant seeds. People are more likely to go along with what you want if they think it’s their own idea, rather than a suggestion from you._

 

He’d taken to delivering her meals in the company of another novice allocated to the same duty. Petyr acted polite towards the fellow novice but made sure Cersei heard and saw it all, as well as hearing him mention going home soon to the fellow novice when he delivered her food.

He had Cersei’s ear after that. Instructions were not given to her by him, for she previously did not listen, but she’d begun to calm herself when others were present. When it was only him, the same could not be said about her.

Not wanting to undo the progress he’d made in encouraging Cersei to be more civil, and potentially indebt herself to him, he continued his conversations with the fellow novice about venturing through Oldtown whenever he wanted and having money to spend.

Cersei hearing it for all of Sixth Moon worked like a charm.

Now, Day one Seven Moon, She was no longer treated as a complete prisoner, for she did not she act like a savage when members of the Citadel were watching. Cersei Lannister behaved in a proper lady’s manner for long enough that the Citadel deemed her cured.

A few days ago, they told her she would be retrieved by the family to return to Casterly Rock.

He witnessed her being told that a few days ago.

Petyr, however, did hear her mutterings about Jaime when he snuck down to the treatment cells to listen late during the nights.

_She mayhaps now hide her thoughts, but Cersei Lannister won’t change. She will never cease seeing her twin as ‘a part of herself’. When she sees him again, I will capitalise on that. Hoster Tully will react if his betrothed daughter, Sansa, is injured by Cersei Lannister again. No doubt Cersei will lash out at the first opportunity._

However, her status as a female in the Citadel meant she was restricted to the treatment cell until a male Lannister came to get her. The restriction infuriated her, but Petyr made an effort to give her the warmer and notably better meals from the cart he had to push. He stopped talking about his freedoms, which likely made a marginal improvement on her mood. Done with the sole purpose of making her see him as a friendly and helpful person; an ally.

And indebted to him, after two moons of the same thing day after day, she was finally indebted to him.

All that the Lannisters had to do was pick up their niece and Petyr would have a pawn in Cersei; within House Lannister. Her desires, and obsession to have them, would serve him well.

While weaving Cersei into the perfect weapon for one planned chaos, Petyr had spent the rest of his time digesting as much information from books and people alike; especially on matters where history differed to his memories, prior to the Tourney of Lannisport.

Looking out the window towards the harbour of Oldtown and the Sunset Sea, he spotted two vessels making port.

One bearing sails with the sigil of House Grafton of Gulltown. Waving from the crow’s nest was a flag with the head of Braavos' titan on a green background, House Baelish, though Petyr changed it to a mockingbird later on in his last life.

The other ship was rather large and had Tyroshi sails signifying a merchant, but Petyr was not fooled; it was no merchant’s ship, but someone disguising themselves. It was too big and the shine of the gold detailing told him the Lannisters were here.

Another private rule came to mind.

 

_‘Know who the players are, who the pieces are, and most importantly, don’t trust anyone.’_

 

The timing of the Lannisters’ arrival was suspect, as well as their use of a merchant’s sails instead. Sailing from Casterly Rock to Oldtown took a minimum of a fortnight; not four days. They’d sailed here with a different intention than retrieving Cersei, for they wouldn’t have received the raven yet at Casterly Rock.

And Petyr had been released a moon and a fortnight before Cersei Lannister.

Their arrival was not for Cersei, and they were attempting to employ deception by hiding their identity.

If the Lannisters were here at the same time as his father, House Lannister had to have an informant within the Vale.

Petyr knew the chain of command within House Lannister; Tywin Lannister was the head of the House and held the position of Hand of the King in King’s Landing, Kevan Lannister did his brother’s bidding from Casterly Rock.

Ravens from the Eyrie to King’s Landing would take a sennight - he personally knew this. Add another sennight to send a raven from King’s Landing to Casterly Rock. Sailing from Casterly Rock to Oldtown took a fortnight, and that equated to the total of one moon.

A moon was the period of time it took to sail from Gulltown to Oldtown against neutral weather.

The most probable reason that the Lannisters arrived at such a close timing to his father’s was an unfavourable one; House Lannister had an ally within the Vale, who raised the alarm regarding Petyr’s freedom.

_Had Father spoken of his plans and been overhead by this ally? This informant?_

From what he ascertained by keeping an eye on the _House Records of Westeros_ , the Arryns and the Martells joined in marriage slightly over a moon ago; Elia Martell to Elbert Arryn. A match he never anticipated, but could use to cause chaos later. However, the match involved a wedding that his father would have been obligated to attend. There were high odds his father and Lord Grafton were overheard conversing about lending Petyr’s father a ship because House Baelish owned none.

_Why else would Father be using a Grafton ship?_

Petyr read the same book, from cover to cover, in search for any and all details on Sansa Tully.

_I would have been an absolute fool to waste the opportunity. That girl should not exist, and yet according to the Citadel, she always has._

_Then why does she look damnably like the young Sansa Stark I once knew?_

_The way she defended the secret of the Lannister twins at the Lannisport Tourney; Sansa Stark would never have done such a thing. House Lannister tore House Stark apart, especially the Red Wedding._

_Cat behaved as though she’s known the pale Tully her whole girlhood; and so did the Blackfish._

_And Sansa did not react to my suggestions of what I know of the future; her title as Lady Stark, the Lannisters being cruel to her, my comments about songs, stones and Lannister bastardy._

_Mayhaps Sansa Stark learnt the game too well. She did learn it too well.  
_

_I’ll have to get close to obtain the truth of her identity._

Remaining by the window, Petyr pretended to be speculating something of scholar’s interest, the feather of a quill flicking against his chin as he thought.

To assume there was nothing unusual about Sansa Tully would be a dangerous decision for him to make. Therefore making it necessary to believe she was indeed Sansa Stark taking on a different identity. She’d, after all, already done such a thing as Alayne Stone in the Vale under his word and influence.

He would have to pretend that he didn’t know any differently about her while he sowed chaos into the realm so he could climb higher in Westeros.

Watching the Grafton ship make port and being tied to one of the wafts, and the disguised Lannister ship under the same process to another waft, Peter made a decision he knew would ensure his survival.

He will not board the Grafton ship with the Lannisters so close.

They were here to stop him, and Tywin Lannister always crippled his enemies. 

Just look at Houses Tarbeck and Reyne. And Tywin Lannister considered Petyr a threat in thanks to knowing about the incestuous behaviour of Jaime and Cersei.

Going into the market area with the money he had accumulated over the past moon and a half, Petyr approached a beggar and requested they made certain purchases for him with a promise of more gold or revenge if they crossed him. He could not risk being seen making the purchases himself.

_Keep your distance and your hands clean._

 

Once all was said and done, he applied another of his ten private rules.

_No loose ends._

The deed was done in a dark and narrow alleyway after weaving a persuasive lie for the beggar to enter it. A person will do what you want if you know what they want. It had been easy enough and no one would suspect a child to be the culprit.

In that same alley, he assembled everything into what he needed for chaos and an escape. Keeping the dry wooden box hidden within the folds of his cloak, Petyr searched for another beggar and found one on the other side of the harbour and near his target. A beggar who would not have seen Petyr’s earlier handiwork and question him.

They were the easiest of people to control; any gold never lasted long, for they would spend it on food and supplies to survive.

Approaching a beggar, a child not much younger than himself, Petyr witnessed the way that they watched him and his pockets.

_He is most certainly hungry._

Satisfied that their hunger would influence them to cooperate, Petyr guided the fellow boy into the shadows. “If you deliver something for me to that Tyroshi ship with the gold detailing, I’ll give you enough to feed yourself for a moon.”

_Hook, line and sinker._

The child was suspicious of Petyr for a moment but lowered his hand to his stomach before he replied. “Aye, what do you want delivered?”

“This,” Petyr said simply, producing the box from within his cloak. Petyr would hide within Oldtown near the Grafton ship until the Lannisters were gone. The boy could still betray him and talk; the promise of gold or not.

The younger boy accepted the box and pulled a look of disgust upon feeling the oil no doubt leaking through minor gaps of the box. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Bottom level of the ship and at the back nearest to the sea; tip the box on its side and run back here,” he instructed in the secluded place where they stood.

The child nodded and weaved himself through the crowd with an ease that spoke of experience.

Petyr buried himself within the shadows, near the edge of the markets and close to the wafts of the harbour. He would enjoy watching the fruits of his labour, and his guarantee of a safe journey home.

The boy emerged from the disguised Lannister ship unscathed and behaved as though he was a normal part of the bustle of the crowd.

_It’s only a matter of time._

Remaining there, Petyr waited for the first sign that his endeavour was a success. For a vessel of its size, it would need time.

Roughly ten minutes later he could see what he had been waiting for; thick smoke rising from the cargo hold of the ship.

There was no commotion in response to the change at first, but when the crew member standing at the helm cried out in alarm, and eventually, it was as though the Seven Hells broke loose on the vessel.

_It’s too late for them to prevail against the flames based so deep within the ship. It will burn and it will sink._

_One loose end to take care of._

Returning to the place where he’d spoken to the child, Petyr found him there looking impatient and waiting.

“I want my money.”

Petyr led him to the shadows and murdered him instead, lowering the body into a seated position on the ground. The clothes would soak up the blood first and by the time it spread upon the ground Petyr would be long gone.

Walking through the markets with his head down, Petyr walked with calm to the other side of the harbour where the Grafton ship had made port; the ship lent to his father.

There were many people focussed on the inferno of the former ship of the Lannister fleet, which allowed Petyr to board his means home with ease. Most of the crew had their eyes on the burning Lannister ship.

That ship had not come for Cersei Lannister; the arrival had been too early. However, from where he stood, Petyr could see Tygett Lannister, the man that had dragged him to the cells in Casterly Rock, approaching the burning and breaking ship with Cersei Lannister by his side.

“Petyr?” he heard the voice of his father. Turning to face his father, Petyr watched as his father’s face was filled with relief. “Gods be good you’re alright,” he murmured holding Petyr close. Loosening the embrace, Father looked to the man at the helm. “Captain!” he called out with fervour.

“Aye?”

“We don’t want embers of the flames to touch our sails! Prepare to cast off!”

“Aye, my lord!”

The harbour was occupied fighting the fire of the disguised Lannister ship or fleeing to protect their own ships. Watching it all happen, Petyr pondered why the Lannisters were here and who were the most likely candidates in the Vale were to inform Tywin Lannister.

Nothing was done without the command of Tywin Lannister.

 

JAIME LANNISTER

Inside the White Sword Tower, Jaime was taking off Ser Arthur Dayne's armour and carefully placed it on its statue; followed by taking off his own and into the chest Ser Arthur allowed Jaime to keep inside the sparse bedchamber to make things easier for Jaime.

"Thank you, Jaime."

"You're welcome, Ser Arthur," he replied happily.

As a squire, there were more things for Jaime to do than just practise with Ser Arthur Dayne, but he would not complain about any of it. He didn’t care that some things were done by maidservants for Jaime at Casterly Rock. He was a squire now and Ser Arthur Dayne was the nicest knight for him to be learning from.

He taught Jaime things that made someone a good knight and a good person.

He taught Jaime the best ways to move about the Red Keep without crossing paths with the king.

Ser Arthur Dayne spent more days than not serving the king, and he always seemed unhappy when duty ended for those days. Jaime made sure he knew when Ser Arthur finished and would visit the knight a little later to talk to him. Talking to Jaime seemed to cheer him up a bit, so Jaime promised to himself that he would be there on the days Ser Arthur had to serve the king.

Putting his armour away while the knight left the bedchamber for the floor that had the tub in it, Jaime closed the chest and locked it, pushing it under the bed where he was allowed to leave it.

Going to a seat in the bedchamber while he waited for Uncle Gery to come and get him, Jaime was disturbed from his thoughts when there was a knock at the door.

It sounded like Addam’s knock. Turning to the door and opening it, he saw that it was Addam and closed the door once the other boy was inside. “Addam,” he said happily. “I hope your day has been good.”

“Yes, it has. People keep thinking I’m the page of a minor lord, not Lord Lannister, so they leave me alone,” Addam replied, sitting down in the seat Jaime had almost sat in before Addam knocked. “How’s your squiring going?” he asked with interest.

“The best,” Jaime replied without hesitating. “He really looks out for me, so I try to be helpful for him too. When he’d served the king and I’m with Uncle Gery or Father for lessons, I come here with Uncle Gery when lessons are over and Ser Arthur is back here. Ser Arthur likes talking to me about what I did and other things when he’s not serving the king for the rest of a day.”

Addam looked puzzled where he sat. “Um…why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but he likes it and I get a rest from Father’s lessons,” Jaime explained, wondering why Ser Arthur did like listening to him talk.

A scream could be heard coming from somewhere in a nearby tower, and Jaime jumped up to find out what it was.

Addam blocked the way out.

Jaime tried pushing him aside but the boy didn’t move. “What in the Seven Hells, Addam? Someone needs help!”

Addam didn’t move away from the door but nodded where he stood. “You can’t do anything, Jaime.” His voice sounded like a fact, not an opinion.

“Why not?” he demanded without being mean to his only other friend here at the Red Keep. “People don’t scream for nothing,” Jaime reasoned clearly. Anyone could figure that out.

“It’s the queen,” Addam said sadly and like it was no surprise.

Jaime was angry inside, but Ser Arthur had taught him how to get rid of that anger later. “Then why are you blocking the way? It’s Queen Rhaella, Addam!”

“Um, well…King Aerys hurts Queen Rhaella a lot and he’s allowed to,” the russet boy said, but Jaime was shaking his head. “No one stops him, Jaime. No one can.”

He just couldn’t understand by the queen could get hurt like that when there were knights all over the Red Keep.

_Especially Ser Arthur, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t!_

“But, Addam. The Kingsguard. What about them? They protect the king and queen.”

Addam just shook his head.

“What do you mean ‘no’, Addam? Hurting the queen isn’t right,” he argued fiercely. This was not what he’d read about knights in the books back home once reading was easier for him.

Addam swallowed nervously and looked Jaime in the eyes. “They don’t protect Queen Rhaella, Jaime. They’re not allowed to.”

That just made fire stir within Jaime. “Why not? They’re knights, Addam.”

The russet-haired boy looked like he didn’t want to answer, but he did anyway. “Their oath is to protect the king and do as he commands, Jaime,” he said slowly. “None of their oaths is about protecting the queen.”

“…no.”

“Yes,” Addam replied, frowning as he looked to Jaime. “If one Kingsguard member decides to protect the queen, his Sworn brothers will have to kill that member. They don’t have a choice, Jaime. I’m sorry, I know you like him, but Ser Arthur doesn’t have a choice. It’s death if he does anything.”

Jaime didn’t want to believe it and shook his head. “No, no. It can’t be…it can’t be…he’s a true knight. He’s a good, real, knight. He protects people.”

Addam gripped Jaime’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes without looking away. “I’m not lying. I’m sorry.”

Swallowing, he turned away from the russet boy who was his age. “Addam? Go, please? Just, I need time alone. Please?”

The russet boy didn’t leave straight away and placed a sealed letter in Jaime’s hands.

Looking at the seal of grey wax with a trout sigil, Jaime normally would have opened it straight away but now was not the time.

Sitting on the end of the bed Jaime wondered by his father would agree to let Ser Arthur have Jaime as a squire if he wasn’t a real knight.

_Real knights don’t let people get hurt._

Not in the mood to see the knight, Jaime left the bedchamber of Ser Arthur and went to his own; Uncle Gery walking with him from White Sword Tower.

 

SANSA STARK

It was past the breaking of fast and Sansa was in the godswood of Winterfell sitting on the risen roots of the heart tree. Beside her and sitting in the spring snow was Lady, a position of dignity while enjoying the hand of Sansa running through her fur.

At the sound of someone approaching she didn’t move or attempt to conceal what she was doing. Instead, she continued it. She’d been at Winterfell with Cat and Uncle Brynden since arriving ten days ago. She’d spent time with Lady daily and, in the eyes of the Starks and Tullys, slowly grew to trust Lady at a reasonable pace despite Lady’s grown size and untamed nature.

Lady lived amongst the Starks here in Winterfell but was free to roam and go where she pleased when she pleased.

No one knew that Lady was connected to Sansa like the Starks of old; The Kings of Winter. As well as the siblings Sansa felt she would never see again.

She remembered them and would honour them all.

It was not long before she saw who was breaking the silent peace of the godswood. Lyarra Stark with a gentle smile and eyes that grew soft upon seeing Sansa petting Lady calmly.

Sitting herself down beside Sansa, The Lady of Winterfell was merely watching her as her hands languidly ran through Lady’s fur.

Lyarra lightly wrapped her arm around Sansa’s back and rested her hand next to Sansa’s hip. “I remember when you sent your letter here asking if the existence of Lady was the truth,” Lyarra began softly, reaching forward and gave Lady’s neck a brief rub. “I received it one day shy of three moons ago, but I remember the day like it was yesterday.”

There was an instinctive urge for Sansa to tense, but she resisted and continued giving Lady’s fur much-caring attention. “She’s an amazing direwolf, Lyarra.”

“I was near Lady when I spoke your name, and, by the gods, I truly had not expected it,” Lyarra murmured, her thumb running along Sansa’s side. “She was absolutely excited; tail wagging with energy and eyes bright with recognition.” Sansa did what anyone would have expected her to and looked to Lyarra in false surprise. But Lyarra simply smiled with a glint of amusement in her eyes and focussed her sight on Lady, giving the direwolf a rub. “Would you come with me on a ride, Sansa?”

Feeling a little wary of what this was leading to, but with no other choice in the matter, Sansa nodded to who could have been her grandmother once. “It would be nice to see more of my sister’s future home. I will miss her greatly when the time comes,” Sansa replied in the manner to be expected of her. Sansa was a guest here in Winterfell and the reason for the visit at all with Uncle Brynden and Cat was for Catelyn to become familiar to where she would live once she married Brandon Stark.

To refuse something as benign as a ride on horseback, and at the request of her hostess, would not only be strange but also rude.

While Cat had briefly fallen ill to the cold of the North, Sansa had not, and to feign sickness would be as convincing as saying Joffrey was merciful.

She was obliged to go.

Copying Lyarra’s rise from the large roots of the heart tree, she could feel dread slowly begin to fill her being.

No one knew about her past life, but it seemed like Lyarra had more than one reason to be curious about Sansa.

Lady’s reaction to her name was one of them.

On the second day of Sansa’s stay in Winterfell, the heart tree in the godswood had released two of its blood red leaves, which landed upon her. Sansa had been on the precipice of throwing them away when Lyarra stayed Sansa’s hand and explained to her the significance of such leaves falling upon a person. Those leaves will maintain their appearance of strong, healthy leaves so long as the person who received them didn’t dispose of them.

Allegedly, receiving those leaves from a weirwood was a sign the Old Gods approved of a selfless deed someone was doing. The only time the leaves fell from a weirwood was for people performing noble acts of great proportions.

Sansa had never known this, for she’d been a child trying to please her mother in Winterfell, who’d followed the Faith and not the Old Gods. However, for Sansa to be bestowed something that, according to Lyarra, so scarcely happened, it meant a lot to Sansa.

Sansa was of the North. The occurrence, even if it have been merely leaves, made her feel like the North and her home, by extension, was accepting her back.

Sansa still had those leaves on her person; within the breeches pockets of her warm mummer’s gown, and not once had they begun to die or break. Just as Lyarra had told her, they were as healthy, strong and bright red as those still hanging from the weirwoods.

With a jolt, Sansa realised that the horses were ready and Hodor, no ‘Walter’, his real name, was lacing his fingers together to assist her up into the saddle. Nimbly doing so, she mounted up onto the horse lent to her and recomposed herself quickly while pretending to be adjusting her skirts. Taking the reins up into her hands, Sansa saw Lyarra ride forth towards the Hunter’s Gate.

Following her, Sansa’s eye was drawn to someone moving near a window in the Great Keep. In one of the upper chambers, she spotted Lyanna glaring at her from inside, but she didn’t know why.

Paying the younger girl no attention, Sansa hastened her horse. That’s when she felt within herself the presence of Lady drawing nearer while Sansa and Lyarra approached the courtyard they needed to pass through.

Sansa’s immediate thought was to brace herself in the saddle, so she wouldn’t fall off when her horse reared in fear. However, her mount didn’t get spooked by Lady’s presence, Sansa relaxed and saw Lady follow them out of the castle and into the Wolfswood.

She knew this place, but could never act so. As far as anyone knew, she was a Tully and will be until the day she is wed to Jaime Lannister.

_But at heart, I will always be a Stark._

Now in front of them, Lady was looking around cautiously and moving at a pace that matched their horses. Curious why Lyarra was following Lady’s lead instead of direction the horse elsewhere, Sansa paid careful attention to where they were going. With calm observation, they seemed to be travelling to an area that was rarely ventured. The ground lacked the flattening effect found on roads and the path to the Crofter’s village; created by repeated use to travel to and from Winterfell.

But it was Lady leading them, and Sansa trusted Lady as much as she would trust herself, so she didn’t worry. She simply observed.

In time, they arrived at a cave, and Lyarra dismounted without preamble and walked over to Sansa and took her hand so she could do the same.

With her feet on the ground and her horse tied to a tree, Sansa spoke her curiosity. “What is this place?”

Lady sat down within the cave and Sansa followed the impulse to sit next to the direwolf.

Lyarra looked a little amused. “You would have to ask Lady, Sansa. For I do not know.”

“Unfortunately I don’t speak direwolf,” Sansa japed lightly and looked at Lady, who was calm beside her.

At the sound of someone sitting beside her, Sansa turned and saw Lyarra next to her. “But, it is as good a place as any to talk privately,” she commented kindly.

Sansa’s stomach knotted immediately, but she didn’t let her face give her away. “What of, Lyarra?”

“Sansa,” she began gently, placing one of Sansa’s hands within hers. “What is your deed the Old Gods gave you those leaves for?”

Sansa's voice was so small, even to herself. “I haven’t completed it yet. I don't know if I will succeed. I'll simply know, I suppose.”

“My offer to help you still stands, Sansa. The gods would never approve of anything heinous,” Lyarra commented, brushing the inside of Sansa’s palm with her thumb. “I have something I want to show you. Lady showed it to me some time ago in the snow. Something I’ve told no one.”

Feeling her heart bleed from the care of the grandmother she'd never met, Sansa lowered her gaze to hide her emotions. Arya had always mentioned, and Cat often said, that her eyes were her most telling feature out of everything.

“Here,” Lyarra said, giving Sansa a piece of parchment gently.

_S.S 286 AC - 312 AC_

_=_

_S.T 265 AC_ –

 

Sansa stiffened at the knowledge that her most precious secret was known and in writing.

Lyarra sighed and rubbed Sansa’s back.

 _Gods be good, I’ve given myself away._  

“Sansa,” Lyarra nearly whispered. “You are a good person. You don’t have to tell me what your name was. Multiple Houses begin with 'S'. Either way, I will help you if you desire me to.”

_She knows. She knows my name. She’s pretending to not to._

_That strange woman at the Tourney of Lannisport knew Lady was alive; she knew Petyr has memories of the same era as me; she knew Westeros was defeated by the Others; she knew my name without me telling her._

_And she said the ally I can tell was ‘one wolf’._

_Lyarra. She meant Lyarra. Who else could it be?  
_

Feeling herself breathe unevenly, Sansa closed her eyes for a moment and got herself under control.

Taking one of the weirwood leaves out of her pocket, Sansa placed it in Lyarra’s hand and looked her in the eyes.

“I was Sansa Stark,” she said with a tremor and had to look down or cry. “I was _once_ Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Unbidden, the tears came anyway.

Lyarra lifted Sansa’s chin with a finger. “No,” she said softly. “You ARE Sansa Stark. And you will always be a Stark,” she murmured, taking Sansa into her lap and held her close. “Lady and her fondness of you is living proof of that. She is your direwolf. And you are a direwolf.”

Lyarra gently pressed her lips to Sansa’s forehead. “In my eyes, you are my granddaughter, Sansa Stark,” she whispered near Sansa’s ear, hand brushing her hair. “My secret daughter.”

Wrapping her arms around Lyarra tightly; Sansa buried herself against her and simply let herself feel.

A cheek against hers.

Arms around her body.

Gentle squeezes from Lyarra.

Herself being lifted and placed astride soft fur.

Opening her eyes, Sansa looked and saw that Lyarra had placed her upon Lady’s back and adjusted Sansa’s hands on Lady.

“I will find a way for us to have time together, Sansa,” she promised, stepping away from Lady’s side. “Now…be the Stark that you are.”

Swallowing, Sansa felt the calm coming from Lady. But there was also excitement, joy, and an eagerness to run.

Tightening her hold on Lady, Sansa took a breath and looked to Lyarra.

“Go, sweetling. My Sansa Stark.”

Lady walked out of the cave.

And ran.

 

She felt like she was flying.


End file.
